Power 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


COMPILED  BY 

ALICE    ROSE    POWER 

WITH 
INTRODUCTION    BY 

PROF.  ELL  WOOD  P.  CUBBERLEY 

LELAND  STANFORD  JR.  UNIVERSITY 


FOR  SALE  BY 

THE  WHITAKER  &  RAY  CO. 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

1901 


ALL.  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


INTRODUCTION. 

This  collection  of  poems  for  memorizing  should  prove  very 
useful,  not  only  to  teachers  in  San  Francisco,  but  throughout 
the  United  States  as  well.  The  selection  has  been  carefully 
made  with  a  view  both  to  literary  content  and  to  suitability  to 
children  of  the  different  grades,  and  the  gathering  together  of 
all  these  poems  in  one  volume  cannot  fail  to  be  of  great  ser- 
vice to  teachers. 

Selections  for  memorizing  should  be  used  in  every  public 
school.  It  is  well  worth  a  child's  time  to  come  to  know 
many  passages  from  the  best  literature.  In  memorizing  them 
and  rendering  them  properly,  a  training  in  feeling  and  appre- 
ciation and  a  refinement  of  the  emotions  is  involved  which  is 
of  great  importance  in  education.  They  represent  in  part  the 
culture  side  of  public  school  work,  as  distinct  from  the  fact 
or  information  side.  This  culture  side  of  public  school  train- 
ing is  an  element  which  should  not  be  neglected  by  any 
teacher,  and  a  judicious  use  of  selections  from  the  best  litera- 
ture will  contribute  much  toward  awakening  an  appreciation 
of  what  is  beautiful  and  noble,  and  fixing  a  permanent  interest 
in  good  literature.  If  this  can  be  done,  it  will  prove  of 
greater  lasting  value  than  many  of  the  facts  upon  which  so 
much  emphasis  is  placed. 

7 


626661 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  first  thing  to  do  in  giving  out  a  new  selection  for 
memorizing  is  to  show  pupils  how  to  study  it.  The  selection 
should  be  placed  on  the  blackboard  where  all  the  class  may 
see  it,  or  copied  down  from  dictation.  The  teacher  should 
read  it  to  the  pupils,  giving  attention  to  articulation,  emphasis, 
inflection  and  pauses,  and,  if  necessary,  explaining  the  thought 
contained.  Pupils  should  be  taught  to  memorize  by  sentences, 
paragraphs,  or  groups  of  words  expressing  a  thought  rather 
than  word  by  word.  The  selections,  when  memorized,  should 
be  delivered  in  such  a  manner  as  to  indicate  an  appreciation 
of  the  thoughts  contained  therein. 

ELLWOOD   P.    CUBBERLEY. 
Leland  Stanford  Jr.  University 


PREFACE. 

There  has  always  been  a  demand  for  a  well  graded  and 
carefully  selected  list  of  poerns  for  memorizing.  The  several 
hundred  books  of  selections  do  not  meet  the  requirements  of 
the  modern  teacher  and  the  modern  child.  The  first  requisite 
of  a  poem  for  memorizing  is  its  ethical  and  literary  value. 
Benjamin  Ide  Wheeler,  in  his  article  on  "  Art  of  Language," 
says,  "Poetry  is  prof ounder  than  psychology."  The  rhyming 
nonsense  in  the  average  book  of  selections  does  not  meet  Pres. 
Wheeler's  description  of  poetry.  Why  not  give  the  children 
the  best  literature  ? 

Prof.  Ell  wood  P.  Cubberley  performed  a  real  service  when 
he  made  a  selection  of  poems  suitable  for  grade  work.  The 
poems  have  been  tested  in  San  Francisco  and  other  schools. 
I  experienced  so  much  difficulty  in  securing  the  poems  recom- 
mended that  I  determined  to  compile  them  in  one  volume.  As 
a  result  I  offer  this  book  to  teachers  aud  pupils.  It  contains 
the  entire  list  recommended  by  Prof.  Cubberley  with  but  three 
or  four  exceptions. 

I  am  under  deep  obligation  to  Hough  ton,  Mifflm  &  Com- 
pany for  their  kind  permission  to  use  the  copyrighted  poems 
of  Lowell,  Whittier,  Longfellow,  Larcom,  and  others.  To 
Boweu,  Merrill  &  Co.  for  the  copyrighted  poems  of  James 
Whitcomb  Riley,  to  the  Whitaker  &  Ray  Co.  for  their  use  of 
Joaquin  Miller's  "Columbus,"  and  A.  J.  Waterhouse's 
"Lullaby." 

ALICE   ROSE   POWER. 

Teacher  in 
San  Francisco  School  Department. 


CONTENTS. 

FIRST  GRADE.  PAQB 

Sweet  and  Low Alfred  Tennyson    ....  15 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat     .     .     .  Edward  Lear 16 

The  Cloud Author  not  known  ....  17 

Little  by  Little Author  not  known  ....  18 

Children Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  18 

The  Little  Lazy  Cloud     .     .     .     .     .  Author  not  known  ....  20 

Sleep,  Baby,  Sleep Author  not  known  ....  21 

My  Good-for-Nothing Emily  Huntington  Miller    .  22 

Runaway  Brook Mrs.  Eliza  L.  Pollen  ...  23 

The  Baby George  Macdonald  ....  23 

My  Shadow Robert  Louis  Stevenson    .     .  25 

Sleep,  Baby,  Sleep  (cradle  song)  .     .  Elizabeth  Prentiss  ....  25 

Three  Little  Bugs  in  a  Basket .     .     .  Alice  Gary 27 

SECOND  GRADE. 

Barefoot  Boy  (ten  lines) John  G.  Whittier    ....  29 

The  Boy  and  the  Bird Author  not  known  ....  29 

Raindrops Author  not  known  ....  30 

Seven  Times  One Jean  Ingelow 31 

Two  and  One Author  not  known  ....  32 

The  New  Moon Mrs.  Eliza  L.  Pollen  ...  33 

Twinkle,  Twinkle,  Little  Star  .     .     .  Jane  Taylor 34 

If  I  were  a  Sunbeam Lucy  Larcom 35 

Lullaby J.  G.  Holland 36 

All  Things  Beautiful Mrs.  C.  P.  Alexander      .     .  37 

Do  All  that  You  Can Mrs.  M.  E.  Sangster  ...  38 

A  Lullaby A.  J.  Waterhouse    ....  39 

Little  Raindrops Author  not  known  ....  40 

THIRD  GRADE. 

The  Brown  Thrush Lucy  Larcom 41 

The  Wonderful  World Charles  H.  Browne     .     .     .42 

Is  It  You? Author  not  known  ....  43 

By-and-By      .         Author  not  known  ....  44 

11 


Contents. 

PAGE 

I  once  had  a  sweet  little  doll    .    .    .  Charles  Kingsley    ....  45 

The  Brook Alfred  Tennyson     ....  45 

The  Dandelion Author  not  known  ....  48 

If  ever  I  see Lydia  Maria  Child    ...  49 

Drive  the  nail  aright Author  not  known  ....  50 

Jack  in  the  Pulpit Clara  Smith 51 

Little  Brown  Hands M .  H.  Krout 53 

Suppose Author  not  known  ....  54 

America Samuel  F.  Smith    ....  55 

Don't  Give  Up Phoebe  Gary 56 

FOUETH  GRADE. 

The  Happiest  Heart John  Vance  Cheney    ...  58 

Something  Left  Undone Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  58 

Suppose,  my  little  lady Phoebe  Gary 59 

Boys  Wanted Author  not  known  ....  61 

The  Fountain James  Russell  Lowell ...  62 

Three  Companions Dinah  M.  Mulock  Craik  .     .  63 

A  Life  Lesson James  Whitcomb  Riley    .     .  64 

The  Fiftieth  Birthday  of  Agassiz  .     .  Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  65 

The  Sculptor Bishop  Doane 66 

Another  Blue  Day Thomas  Carlyle      ....  67 

The  Barefoot  Boy John  G.  Whittier  ....  68 

A  Night  with  a  Wolf Bayard  Taylor 70 

The  Good  Time  Coming Charles  Mackay     ....  71 

The  Brook  and  the  Wave     ....  Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  73 

FIFTH   GRADE. 

Love  of  Country Sir  Walter  Scott     ....  75 

The  Village  Blacksmith Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  76 

Break,  break,  break Alfred  Tennyson     ....  78 

The  Vicar's  Sermon Charles  Mackay     ....  79 

The  Three  Fishers Charles  Kingsley    ....  80 

Nobility Alice  Gary 81 

The  Arrow  and  the  Song      ....  Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  82 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims    .     .     .  .Ifrs.  Hemans 83 

How  sleep  the  brave William  Collins      ....  85 

12 


Contents. 


One  by  One Adelaide  A.  Proctor    ...  85 

The  Builders Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  87 

The  Will  and  the  Way John  G.  Saxe 88 

My  Books John  G.  Saxe 89 

The  Light  that  is  Felt John  Greenleaf  Whittier  .     .  91 

Decoration  Day Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  92 

Somebody's  Mother Author  not  known  ....  93 

The  Heritage James  Russell  Lowell ...  94 

Psalm  XXIII 96 

SIXTH  GRADE. 

Thanksgiving  Hymn  for  California  .  Mrs.  Stetson 9? 

The  Day  is  Done Henry  W.  Longfellow     .     .    98 

The  Last  Leaf Oliver  Wendell  Holmes    .     .  100 

Ring  out,  wild  bells Alfred  Tennyson     ....  102 

Soldier,  rest Sir  Walter  Scott     ....  104 

A  Song James  Whitcomb  Riley    .     .  105 

The  American  Flag Joseph  R.  Drake     ....  106 

The  Rainy  Day Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  108 

Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore     ....  Charles  Wolfe    .....  109 

Over  and  Over  Again Josephine  Pollard  ....  Ill 

A  Psalm  of  Life Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  112 

An  Order  for  a  Picture Alice  Gary 114 

SEVENTH  GRADE. 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal    ....  James  Russell  Lowell .     .     .  118 

Columbus — Westward Joaquin  Miller 119 

Bugle  Song Alfred  Tennyson     ....  121 

To  a  Skylark  .     .     . Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  .     .     .122 

Sail  on,  O  ship  of  state Henry  W.  Longfellow     .     .  126 

What  Constitutes  a  State?  ....  Sir  William  Jones  ....  127 

Crossing  the  Bar Alfred  Tennyson    ....  128 

The  Sound  of  the  Sea Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  129 

Snow-bound John  G.  Whittier   ....  129 

The  Chambered  Nautilus     ....  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes    .     .  132 

Song  of  Marion's  Men William  Cullen  Bryant  .     .  133 

Warren's  Address John  Pierpont    .     .     .     .     .  136 

13 


Contents. 

PAGE 

Daybreak Henry  W.  Longfellow     .     .  137 

Liberty,  or  Death Patrick  Henry 138 

Hymn  on  the  Fight  at  Concord    .     .  R.  W.  Emerson 141 

Woodman,  Spare  That  Tree     .     .     .  George  P.  Morris    ....  142 
Abou  Ben  Adhem James  Henry  L.  Hunt    .    -  143 

EIGHTH   GRADE. 

O  Captain !  My  Captain !     .     .     .     .    Walt  Whitman 145 

Thanatopsis William  Cullen  Bryant  .     .  145 

A  Man  's  a  Man  for  a'  That     .     .     .  Robert  Burns 149 

To  a  Waterfowl William  Cullen  Bryant   .     .  151 

Remembered  Music James  Russell  Lowell .     .     .  152 

Old  Ironsides Oliver  Wendell  Holmes    .     .  153 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic  .     .     .  Julia  Ward  Howe  ....  154 

Liberty  and  Union Daniel  Webster 155 

The  Shell Alfred  Tennyson     ....  157 

Self-dependence Matthew  Arnold     ....  158 

Sun  and  Shadow Oliver  Wendell  Holmes    .     .  159 

Address  at  Gettysburg Abraham  Lincoln  ....  160 

The  Way  to  Heaven J.  G.  Holland 162 

Elegy Thomas  Gray 163 

True  Rest Goethe 168 

The  Present  Crisis James  Russell  Lowell .     .     .  169 

Abraham  Lincoln E.  C.  Stedman 171 

The  Ladder  of  St.  Augustine    .     .     .  Henry  W.  Longfellow      .     .  172 

Contentment Lucy  Larcom 174 

Recessional Rudyard  Kipling  ....  176 

OLD  FAVORITES. 

Robert  of  Lincoln William  Cullen  Bryant  .     .177 

Casabianca Mrs.  Hemans 180 

What  I  Live  for Author  not  known  ....  182 

The  Burial  of  Moses Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander      .     .  183 

Sheridan's  Ride Thomas  Buchanan  Read      .  186 

Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade     .     .     .  Alfred  Tennyson     ....  189 

THOUGHTS   FOR  MEMORIZING 191-201 

14 


POEMS 

FOR  MEMORIZING 


FIRST    GRADE. 


SWEET    AND    LOW. 

Sweet  and  low,  sweet  and  low, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea, 
Low,  low,  breathe  and  blow, 

Wind  of  the  western  sea! 
Over  the  rolling  waters  go, 
Come  from  the  dying  moon,  and  blow, 

Blow  him  again  to  me ; 
While  my  little  one,  while  my  pretty  one,  sleeps 

Sleep  and  rest,  sleep  and  rest, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon; 
Rest,  rest,  on  mother's  breast, 

Father  will  come  to  thee  soon ; 

Father  will  come  to  his  babe  in  the  nes^ 
Silver  sails  all  out  of  the  west  ^s' 

Under  the  silver  moon ; 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  my  pretty  01 

_Alfim, 

r  not  known. 
15 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE    OWL    AND    THE    PUSSY-CAT. 

The  Owl  and  the  Pussy-Cat  went  to  sea 

In  a  beautiful  pea-green  boat; 
They  took  some  honey,  and  plenty  of  money 

Wrapped  up  in  a  five-pound  note. 
The  Owl  looked  up  to  the  moon  above, 

And  sang  to  a  small  guitar, 
"  O  lovely  Pussy!    O  Pussy,  my  love! 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are,  — 
You  are, 

What  a  beautiful  Pussy  you  are!  " 
1 

El< 

Trr  Pussy  said  to  the  Owl,  "  You  elegant  fowl! 

The          How  wonderful  sweet  you  sing  ! 
AbnOh  let  us  be  married,  —  too  long  we  have  tarried,  — 
The  !L       gut  what  shall  we  do  for  a  ring?  '  ' 
^hey  sailed  away  for  a  year  and  a  day 

To  the  land  where  the  Bong-  tree  grows, 
OLD  F^i  there  in  a  wood,  a  piggy-  wig  stood 
Robert  of  With  a  ring  in  the  end  of  his  nose,  — 
Casablanca  His  nose, 


Li,VCith  a  ring  in  the  end  of  his  nose. 
The  Burial  01 

Sheridan's  Ric 

Charge  of  the  :  ,  are  you  willing  to  sell  for  one  shilling 

^r  ring?  '  '     Said  the  piggy,  '  '  I  will  .  '  ' 
LIGHTS  j.ook  ^  away,  and  were  married  next  day 
the  turkey  who  lives  on  the  hill. 
16 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


They  dined  upon  mince  and  slices  of  quince, 

Which  they  ate  with  a  runcible  spoon, 
And  hand  in  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  saiad 
They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon, — 

The  moon, 
They  danced  by  the  light  of  the  moon . 

— Edward  Lear. 


THE    CLOUD. 

What  are  you  doing,  little  white  cloud, 
Up  in  the  heavens,  sailing  so  proud! 

Helping  my  brothers  here  in  the  blue 
Hide  the  hot  sunshine,  baby,  from  you. 

Where  are  you  going,  flying  so  slow, 
White  cloud  so  lazy,  I'd  like  to  know? 

Gathering  raindrops  out  of  the  air, 
For  the  poor  flowers,  dying  down  there. 

When  will  you  scatter  some  of  the  showers, 
You  have  been  saving,  down  to  the  flowers? 

Where  the  Lord  sends  me,  always  I  roam, 
When  the  Lord  bids  me,  baby,  I'll  come. 

— Author  not  known. 

17 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


LITTLE    BY    LITTLE. 


One  step  and  then  another, 
And  the  longest  walk  is  ended; 
One  stitch,  and  then  another, 
And  the  largest  rent  is  mended; 
Ome  brick  upon  another, 
And  the  highest  wall  is  made; 
One  flake  upon  another, 
And  the  deepest  snow  is  laid. 

Then  do  not  look  disheartened 

O'er  the  work  you  have  to  do, 

And  say  that  such  a  mighty  task 

You  never  can  get  through; 

But  just  endeavor,  day  by  day, 

Another  point  to  gain, 

And  soon  the  mountain  which  you  feared 

Will  prove  to  be  a  plain. 

— Author  not  known. 


CHILDREN. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children! 

For  I  hear  you  at  your  play, 
And  the  questions  that  perplexed  me 

Have  vanished  quite  away. 

18 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Ye  open  the  eastern  windows, 

That  look  towards  the  sun, 
Where  thoughts  are  singing  swallows 

And  the  brooks  of  morning  run. 

In  your  hearts  are  the  birds  and  the  sunshine, 
In  your  thoughts  the  brooklet's  flow, 

But  in  mine  is  the  wind  of  Autumn 
And  the  first  fall  of  the  snow. 

Ah,  what  would  the  world  be  to  us 

If  the  children  were  no  more? 
We  should  dread  the  desert  behind  us 

Worse  than  the  dark  before. 

What  the  leaves  are  to  the  forest, 

With  light  and  air  for  food, 
Ere  their  sweet  and  tender  juices 

Have  been  hardened  into  wood, — 

That  to  the  world  are  children; 

Through  them  it  feels  the  glow 
Of  a  brighter  and  sunnier  climate 

Than  reaches  the  trunks  below. 

Come  to  me,  O  ye  children! 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
What  the  birds  and  the  winds  are  singing 

In  your  sunny  atmosphere. 


19 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


For  what  are  all  our  contrivings, 
And  the  wisdom  of  our  books, 

When  compared  with  your  .-aresses, 
And  the  gladness  of  your  looks? 

Ye  are  better  than  all  the  ballads 
That  ever  were  sung  or  said ; 

For  ye  are  living  poems, 
And  all  the  rest  are  dead. 

— Longfellow. 


THE    LITTLE    LAZY    CLOUD. 

A  pretty  little  cloud  away  up  in  the  sky, 

Said  it  did  not  care  if  the  earth  was  dry ; 

'Twas  having  such  a  nice  time  sailing  all  around, 

It  wouldn't,  no,  it  wouldn't  tumble  on  the  ground. 

So  the  pretty  little  lilies  hung  their  aching  heads , 

And  the  golden  pansies  cuddled  in  their  beds; 

The  cherries  couldn't  grow  a  bit,  you  would  have  pitied  them; 

They'd  hardly  strength  to  hold  to  the  little  slender  stem. 

By  and  by  the  little  cloud  felt  a  dreadful  shock, 
Just  as  does  a  boat  when  it  hits  upon  a  rock. 
Something  ran  all  through  it,  burning  like  a  flame, 
And  the  little  cloud  began  to  cry  as  down  to  earth  it  came. 

20 


Poems  \ 

For  Memorizing 

Then  old  Grandpa  Thunder,  as  he  growled  away, 
Said,  "  I  thought  I'd  make  yon  mind  'fore  another  day; 
Little  clouds  were  meant  to  fall  when  the  earth  is  dry, 
And  not  go  sailing  round  away  up  in  the  sky." 

And  old  Grandma  Lightning,  flitting  to  and  fro, 
Said,  "  What  were  you  made  for,  I  would  like  to  know, 
That  you  spend  your  precious  time  sailing  all  around, 
When  you  know  you  ought  to  be  buried  in  the  ground." 

Then  lilies  dear,  and  pansies,  all  began  to  bloom, 
And  the  cherries  grew  and  grew  till  they  took  up  all  the  room. 
Then  by  and  by  the  little  cloud,  with  all  its  duty  done, 
Was  caught  up  by  a  rainbow  and  allowed  a  little  fun. 

— Author  not  known. 

SWEET  BABY,  SLEEP. 

Sweet  baby,  sleep !  what  ails  my  dear? 
What  ails  my  darling,  thus  to  cry? 
Be  still,  my  child,  and  lend  thine  ear, 
To  hear  me  sing  thy  lullaby. 
My  pretty  lamb,  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  dear;   sweet  babjr,  sleep. 

Sweet  baby,  sleep,  and  nothing  fear; 
For  whosoever  thee  offends 
By  thy  protector  threatened  are, 
And  God  and  Angels  are  thy  friends. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  babe;   sweet  baby,  sleep. 
21 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


When  God  with  us  was  dwelling  here, 
In  little  babes  he  took  delight; 
Such  innocence  as  thou,  my  dear, 
Are  ever  precious  in  His  sight. 
Sweet  baby,  then  forbear  to  weep; 
Be  still,  my  babe;  sweet  baby,  sleep. 

—  Author  not  known. 

MY    GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. 

What  are  you  good  for,  my  brave  little  man? 
Answer  that  question  for  me,  if  you  can, — 
You,  with  your  fiugers  as  white  as  a  nun, — 
You,  with  your  ringlets  as  bright  as  the  sun. 
All  the  day  long,  with  your  busy  contriving, 
Into  all  mischief  and  fun  you  are  driving; 
See  if  your  wise  little  noddle  can  tell 
What  you  are  good  for.     Now  ponder  it  well." 

Over  the  carpet  the  dear  little  feet 
Came  with  a  patter  to  climb  on  my  seat; 
Two  merry  eyes,  full  of  frolic  and  glee, 
Under  their  lashes  looked  up  unto  me ; 
Two  little  hands,  pressing  soft  on  my  face, 
Drew  me  down  close  in  a  loving  embrace ; 
Two  rosy  lips  gave  the  answer  so  true, 
Good  to  love  you,  mamma, — good  to  love  you." 

— Emily  Huntington  Miller. 


22 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


RUNAWAY    BROOK. 

"  Stop,  stop,  pretty  water!" 

Said  Mary  one  day. 
To  a  frolicsome  brook, 
That  was  running  away. 

'  You  run  on  so  fast! 

I  wish  you  would  stay; 
My  boat  and  my  flowers 
You  will  carry  away. 

'  But  I  will  ran  after : 

Mother  says  that  I  may; 
For  I  would  know  where 
You  are  running  away." 

So  Mary  ran  on; 

But  I  have  heard  say, 
That  she  never  could  find 

Where  the  brook  ran  away. 

—Eliza  Follen. 


THE    BABY. 

Where  did  you  come  from,  baby  dear? 
Out  of  the  everywhere  into  here . 
Where  did  you  get  your  eyes  so  blue? 
Out  of  the  sky  as  I  came  through. 

23 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


What  makes  the  light  in  them  sparkle  and  spin? 
Some  of  the  starry  spikes  left  in. 
Where  did  you  get  that  little  tear? 
I  found  it  waiting  when  I  got  here. 

What  makes  your  forehead  so  smooth  and  high? 
A  soft  hand  stroked  it  as  I  went  by. 
What  makes  your  cheek  like  a  warm,  white  rose? 
I  saw  something  better  than  any  one  knows. 

Whence  that  three-corner 'd  smile  of  bliss? 
Three  angels  gave  me  at  once  a  kiss. 
Where  did  you  get  this  pearly  ear? 
God  spoke,  and  it  came  out  to  hear. 

Where  did  you  get  those  arms  and  hands? 
Love  made  itself  into  hooks  and  bands. 
Feet,  whence  did  you  come,  you  darling  things? 
From  the  same  box  as  the  cherubs'  wings. 

How  did  they  all  come  just  to  be  you? 
God  thought  of  me  and  so  I  grew. 
But  how  did  you  come  to  us,  you  dear? 
God  thought  of  you,  and  so  I  am  here. 

— George  Macdonald. 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


MY  SHADOW. 

I  have  a  little  shadow  that  goes  in  and  out  with  me, 
And  what  can  be  the  use  of  him  is  more  than  I  can  see. 
He  is  very,  very  like  me  from  the  heels  up  to  the  head; 
And  I  see  him  jump  before  me,  when  I  jump  into  my  bed. 

He  has  n't  got  a  notion  of  how  children  ought  to  play, 
And  can  only  make  a  fool  of  me  in  every  sort  of  way. 
He  stays  so  close  beside  me,  he's  a  coward  you  can  see; 
I'd  think  shame  to  stick  to  nursie  as  that  shadow  sticks  tome. 

One  morning,  very  early,  before  the  sun  was  up, 

I  rose  and  found  the  dew  on  every  buttercup ; 

But  my  lazy  little  shadow,  like  an  arrant,  sleepy  head; 

Had  stayed  at  home  behind  me  and  was  fast  asleep  in  bed. 

— Stevenson. 


SLEEP,    BABY,    SLEEP. 
(Cradle  Song.) 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Thy  father's  watching  the  sheep; 
Thy  mother's  shaking  the  dreamland  tree, 
And  down  drops  a  little  dream  for  thee. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

25 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

The  large  stars  are  the  sheep; 
The  little  stars  are  the  lambs,  I  guess, 
The  bright  moon  is  the  shepherdess. 

Sleep,  babj,  sleep! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

And  cry  not  like  a  sheep ! 
Else  the  sheep-dog  will  bark  and  whine, 
And  bite  this  naughty  child  of  mine. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Thy  Savior  loves  His  sheep; 
He  is  the  Lamb  of  God  on  High, 
Who  for  our  sakes  came  down  to  die. 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

Away  to  tend  the  sheep, 
Away,  thou  sheep-dog  fierce  and  wild, 
And  do  not  harm  my  sleeping  child! 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep! 

— Elizabeth  Prentiss.     (From  the  German.) 


26 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THREE    LITTLE    BUGS    IN    A    BASKET. 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  hardly  room  for  two ; 
And  one  was  yellow,  and  one  was  black, 

And  one  like  me  or  you ; 
The  space  was  small,  no  doubt,  for  all, 

So  what  should  the  three  bugs  do? 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 
And  hardly  crumbs  for  two; 

And  all  were  selfish  in  their  hearts, 

The  same  as  I  or  you. 

So  the  strong  one  said,  "  We  will  eat  the  bread, 
And  that's  what  we  will  do! " 

Three  little  bugs  in  a  basket, 

And  the  beds  but  two  could  hold; 

And  so  they  fell  to  quarreling — 

The  white,  the  black,  and  the  gold — 

And  two  of  the  bugs  got  under  the  rugs, 
And  one  was  out  in  the  cold. 

He  that  was  left  in  the  basket, 

Without  a  crumb  to  chew, 
Or  a  shred  to  wrap  himself  withal, 

When  the  wind  across  him  blew, 
Pulled  one  of  the  rugs  from  one  of  the  bugs, 

And  so  the  quarrel  grew. 

27 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


So  there  was  war  in  the  basket ; 

Ah!  pity 'tis,  'tis  true! 
But  he  that  was  frozen  and  starved,  at  last 

A  strength  from  his  weakness  drew, 
And  pulled  the  rugs  from  both  the  bugs, 

And  killed  and  ate  them,  too! 

Now  when  bugs  live  in  a  basket, 

Though  more  than  it  well  can  hold, 

It  seems  to  me  they  had  better  agree — 
The  black,  the  white,  and  the  gold — • 

And  share  what  comes  of  beds  and  crumbs, 
And  leave  no  bag  in  the  cold. 

— Alice  Cary. 


28 


SECOND    GRADE. 


BAREFOOT    BOY. 

(First  ten  lines.) 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheeks  of  tan! 
With  thy  turned  up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy! 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy. 


THE    BOY    AND    THE    BIRD. 

Who  taught  you  to  sing 

My  sweet,  pretty  bird? 

Who  tuned  your  melodious  throat? 
You  make  all  the  hills  and  valleys  to  ring; 
You  bring  the  first  news  of  the  earliest  spring 

With  your  loud  and  silvery  note. 

29 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


"  It  was  God,"  said  the  lark, 

As  he  rose  from  the  earth ; 
"  He  gives  us  the  good  we  enjoy; 
He  painted  our  wings,  he  gave  us  our  voice, 
He  gives  us  our  food  and  bids  us  rejoice, 
Good  morning,  my  beautiful  boy." 

— Author  not  known. 


RAIN-DROPS. 

Some  little  drops  of  water, 

Whose  home  was  in  the  sea, 
To  go  upon  a  journey 

Once  happened  to  agree. 

A  cloud  they  had  for  carriage, 

They  drove  a  playful  breeze, 
And  over  town  and  country, 

They  rode  along  with  ease. 

But,  oh!   there  were  so  many, 

At  last  the  carriage  broke ; 
And  to  the  ground  came  tumbling 

Those  frightened  little  folk. 

Through  the  moss  and  grasses, 

They  were  compelled  to  roam 
Until  a  brooklet  found  them, 

And  carried  them  all  home. 

— Author  not  known. 

30 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


SEVEX    TIMES    ONE. 

There's  no  dew  left  on  the  daisies  and  clover, 

There's  no  rain  left  in  heaven: 
I've  said  my  "  seven  times  "  over  and  over, 

Seven  times  one  are  seven. 

I  am  old,  so  old  I  can  write  a  letter; 

My  birthday  lessons  are  done ; 
The  lambs  play  always,  they  know  no  better, — 

They  are  only  one  times  one. 

0  Moon!   in  the  night  I  have  seen  you  sailing 
And  shining  so  round  and  low; 

You  were  bright,  ah  bright!   but  your  light  is  failing, — 
You  are  nothing  now  but  a  bow. 

You  Moon,  have  you  done  something  wrong  in  heaven, 
That  God  has  hidden  your  face  ? 

1  hope  if  you  have,  you  will  soon  be  forgiven, 
And  shine  again  in  your  place. 

O  velvet  bee,  you're  a  dusty  fellow; 

You've  powdered  your  legs  with  gold! 
O  brave  niarshniary  buds,  rich  and  yellow, 

Give  me  your  money  to  hold ! 

O  columbine,  open  your  folded  wrapper, 

Where  two  twin  turtle-doves  dwell! 
0  cuckoo- pint,  toll  me  the  purple  clapper 

That  hangs  in  your  clear  green  bell ! 
31 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 

And  show  me  your  nest,  with  the  young  ones  in  it, — 

I  will  not  steal  it  away; 
I  am  old!  you  may  trust  me,  linnet,  linnet, — 

I  am  seven  times  one  to-day. 

— Jean  Ingelow. 


TWO    AND    ONE. 

Two  ears  and  only  one  mouth  have  you; 

The  reason,  I  think,  is  clear: 
It  teaches,  my  child,  that  it  will  not  do 

To  talk  about  all  you  hear. 

Two  eyes  and  only  one  mouth  have  you; 

The  reason  for  this  must  be, 
That  you  should  learn  that  it  will  not  do 

To  talk  about  all  you  see. 

Two  hands  and  only  one  mouth  have  you; 

And  it  is  worth  while  repeating: 
The  two  are  for  work  you  will  have  to  do — 

The  one  is  enough  for  eating. 

— Author  not  known. 


32 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE    NEW    MOON. 


Dear  mother,  how  pretty 

The  moon  looks  to-night ! 
She  was  never  so  cunning  before ; 

Her  two  little  horns 

Are  so  sharp  and  bright, 
I  hope  she'll  not  grow  any  more. 

If  I  were  up  there 

With  you  and  my  friends, 
I'd  rock  in  it  nicely,  you'd  see; 

I'd  sit  in  the  middle 

And  hold  by  both  ends; 
Oh,  what  a  bright  candle  'twould  be! 

I  would  call  to  the  stars 

To  keep  out  of  the  way, 
Lest  we  should  rock  over  their  toes; 

And  then  I  would  rock 

Till  the  dawn  of  the  day, 
And  see  where  the  pretty  moon  goes. 

And  there  we  would  stay 

In  the  beautiful  skies, 
And  through  the  bright  clouds  we  would  roam ; 

We  would  see  the  sun  set, 

And  see  the  sun  rise, 
And  in  the  next  rainbow  come  home. 

— Mrs.  Eliza  Lee  Follen. 

33 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


TWINKLE.  TWINKLE,  LITTLE    STAR. 

Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star; 
How  I  wonder  what  you  are ! 
Up  above  the  world  so  high, 
Like  a  diamond  in  the  sky. 

When  the  blazing  sun  is  gone, 
When  he  nothing  shines  upon, 
Then  you  show  your  little  light, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  all  the  night. 

Then  the  traveler  in  the  dark 
Thanks  you  for  your  tiny  spark ; 
He  could  not  see  which  way  to  go, 
If  you  did  not  twinkle  so. 

In  the  dark  blue  sky  you  keep, 
Yet  often  through  my  window  peep ; 
For  you  never  shut  your  eye, 
Till  the  sun  is  in  the  sky. 

As  your  bright  but  tiny  spark 
Lights  the  traveler  in  the  dark, 
Though  I  know  not  what  you  are, 
Twinkle,  twinkle,  little  star. 

— Jane  Taylor. 


34 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


IF  I  WERE  A  SUNBEAM. 

If  I  were  a  sunbeam, 

Tknow  what  I'd  do: 
I  would  seek  white  lilies 

Rainy  woodlands  through: 
I  would  steal  among  them, 

Softest  light  I'd  shed, 
Until  every  lily 

Raised  its  drooping  head. 

If  I  were  a  sunbeam, 

I  know  where  I'd  go: 
Into  lowliest  hovels, 

Dark  with  want  and  woe: 
Till  sad  hearts  looked  upward, 

I  would  shine  and  shine ; 
Then  they'd  think  of  heaven, 

Their  sweet  home  and  mine." 

Art  thou  not  a  sunbeam, 

Child  whose  life  is  glad 
With  an  inner  radiance 

Sunshine  never  had'? 
Oh,  as  God  has  blessed  thee, 

Scatter  rays  divine! 
For  there  is  no  sunbeam 

But  must  die,  or  shine. 

— Lucy  Larcom. 


35 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


LULLABY. 


Over  the  cradle  the  mother  hung, 
Softly  crooning  a  slumber  song: 
And  these  were  the  simple  words  she  sung 
All  the  evening  long: 

Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  bef 
Where  shall  the  angel's  finger  rest 
When  he  comes  down  to  the  baby's  nest? 
Where  shall  the  angel's  touch  remain 
When  he  awakens  my  babe  again?" 

Still  as  she  bent  and  sang  so  low, 
A  murmur  into  her  music  broke : 
And  she  paused  to  hear,  for  she  could  but  know 
The  baby's  angel  spoke. 

Cheek  or  chin,  or  knuckle  or  knee, 
Where  shall  the  baby's  dimple  be? 
Where  shall  my  finger  fall  and  rest 
When  I  come  down  to  the  baby's  nest? 
Where  shall  my  finger  touch  remain 
When  I  awaken  your  babe  again?" 

Silent  the  mother  sat  and  dwelt 
Long  in  the  sweet  delay  of  choice 
And  then  by  her  baby's  side  she  knelt, 
And  sang  with  a  pleasant  voice : 

36 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Not  on  the  limb,  O  angel  dear! 

For  the  charm  with  its  youth  will  disappear; 

Not  on  the  cheek  shall  the  dimple  be, 

For  the  harboring  smile  will  fade  and  flee ; 

But  touch  thou  the  chin  with  an  impress  deep, 

And  my  baby  the  angel's  seal  shall  keep." 

—  J.  G.  Holland. 


ALL    THINGS    BEAUTIFUL. 

All  things  bright  and  beautiful, 
All  creatures  great  and  small, 

All  things  wise  and  wonderful, 
The  Lord  God  made  them  all. 

Each  little  flower  that  opens , 
Each  little  bird  that  sings, 

He  made  their  glowing  colors, 
He  made  their  tiny  wings 

The  purple-headed  mountain, 

The  river  running  by, 
The  morning,  and  the  sunset 

That  lighteth  up  the  sky. 

The  tall  trees  in  the  greenwood, 
The  pleasant  summer  sun, 

The  ripe  fruits  in  the  garden, 
He  made  them  every  one. 


37 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


He  gave  us  eyes  to  see  them, 

And  lips  that  we  might  tell, 
How  great  is  God  Almighty, 

Who  hath  made  all  things  well. 

—  Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander. 


DO    ALL    THAT    YOU    CAN. 

I  cannot  do  much,"  said  a  little  star, 

"  To  make  this  dark  world  bright; 
My  silvery  beams  cannot  pierce  far 

Into  the  gloom  of  night; 
Yet  I  am  a  part  of  God's  great  plan, 
And  so  I  will  do  the  best  that  I  can." 

What  can  be  the  use,"  said  a  fleecy  cloud, 

"  Of  these  few  drops  that  I  hold? 
They  will  hardly  bend  the  lily  proud, 

If  caught  in  her  chalice  of  gold; 
But  I,  too,  am  a  part  of  God's  great  plan, 
So  my  treasures  I  '11  give  as  well  as  I  can." 

A  child  went  merrily  forth  to  play, 

But  a  thought,  like  a  silver  thread, 
Kept  winding  in  and  out  all  day 

Through  the  happy  golden  head: 
Mother  said,  "  Darling,  do  all  that  you  can, 
For  you  are  a  part  of  God's  great  plan." 

—  Mrs.  M.  E.  Sangster. 

38 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


A    LULLABY. 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  where  you  float 
On  the  Dreamland  Sea  in  the  Dreamland  Boat; 
But  where  is  that  sea  and  whither  you  go, 
Ah,  who  is  so  wise  that  he  ever  may  know  ? 
There  the  sails  of  the  voyager  onward  are  fanned 
By  the  lullaby  breezes  from  Hushabyland, 
And  the  boat  is  a  cradle  that  swings  to  and  fro, 
But  whither  it  bears  you,  ah,  none  of  us  know. 

Sleep,  my  little  one.     None  may  know 

Whither  the  Dreamboat  saileth, 
But  One  heedeth  ever  wherever  you  go, 

And  His  is  a  love  never  faileth. 

Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  and  dream 
As  you  float,  float  away  on  the  wonderful  stream 
That  leads  to  the  land  where  the  white  angels  be, 
Which  I,  in  my  blindness,  no  longer  may  see. 
There  the  Angel  of  Love  and  the  Angel  of  Rest 
Shall  cuddle  my  bairuie  so  close  to  the  breast 
That  only  the  thought  of  the  mother  and  me 
Could  bring  you  safe  home  again  over  the  sea. 
Sleep,  my  little  one,  sleep  and  smile, 

Floating,  ah,  none  may  know  whither; 
You  shall  sail  back  again  after  a  while, 
Guided  by  angel  hands  hither. 

—  A.  J.  Waterhouse. 

39 


Poetti* 

For  Memorizing 


LITTLE    RAIN-DROPS. 


Oh,  where  do  you  come  from, 

You  little  drops  of  rain, 
Pitter-patter,  pitter-patter 

Down  the  window-pane? 
They  say  I  'm  very  naughty, 

But  I  've  nothing  else  to  do, 
But  sit  here  at  the  window; 

I  should  like  to  play  with  you. 

Tell  me,  little  rain-drops, 

Is  that  the  way  you  play, 
Pitter-patter,  pitter-patter, 

All  the  rainy  day? 
The  little  rain-drops  cannot  speak, 

But  "  Pitter-patter,  pat" 
Means,  "  We  can  play  on  this  side; 

Why  can  't  you  play  on  that?" 

—  Author  Unknown. 


40 


THIRD    GRADE. 

THE  BROWN  THRUSH. 

There's  a  merry  brown  thrush  sitting  up  in  the  tree 
He's  singing  to  me!     He's  singing  to  me! " 
And  what  does  he  say,  little  girl,  little  boy? 
Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy! 

Don't  you  hear?     Don't  you  see? 

Hush!     Look!     In  my  tree, 

I'm  as  happy  as  happy  can  be! " 

And  the  brown  thrush  keeps  singing,  "  A  nest  do  you  see, 
And  five  eggs  hid  by  me  in  the  juniper  tree? 
Don't  meddle!     Don't  touch!  little  girl,  little  boy, 
Or  the  world  will  lose  some  of  its  joy! 

Now  I'm  glad!     Now  I'm  free! 

And  I  always  shall  be, 

If  you  never  bring  sorrow  to  me." 

So  the  merry  brown  thrush  sings  away  in  the  tree, 
To  you  and  to  me,  to  you  and  to  me: 
And  he  sings  all  the  day,  little  girl,  little  boy, 
Oh,  the  world's  running  over  with  joy! 
But  long  it  won't  be, 
Don't  you  know?  don't  you  see? 
Unless  we  are  as  good  as  can  be ! " 

— Lucy  Larcom. 
41 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE  WONDERFUL  WORLD. 

Great,  wide,  beautiful,  wonderful  world, 
With  the  beautiful  water  round  you  curled, 
And  the  wonderful  grass  upon  your  breast  — 
World,  you  are  beautifully  dressed! 

The  wonderful  air  is  over  me, 
And  the  wonderful  wind  is  shaking  the  tree ; 
It  walks  on  the  water,  and  whirls  the  mills, 
And  talks  to  itself  on  the  tops  of  the  hills. 

You  friendly  earth,  how  far  do  you  go! 

With  the  wheat-fields  that  nod,  and  the  rivers  that  flow, 

And  cities  and  gardens,  and  cliffs  and  isles, 

And  people  upon  you  for  thousands  of  miles? 

Ah,  you  are  so  great,  and  I  am  so  small, 

I  hardly  can  think  of  you,  world,  at  all; 

And  yet,  when  I  said  my  prayers  today, 

A  whisper  within  me  seemed  to  say, 

You  are  more  than  the  earth,  though  you  are  but  a  dot; 

You  can  love  and  think,  and  the  earth  cannot." 

— Chas.  H.  Browne. 


42 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


IS  IT  YOU? 


There  is  a  child  —  a  boy  or  girl  — 

I'm  sorry  it  is  true  — 

Who  doesn't  mind  when  spoken  to; 

Is  it?— It  isn't  you! 

Oh,  no,  it  can't  be  you! 

I  know  a  child  —  a  boy  or  girl  — 

I'm  loath  to  say  I  do  — 

Who  struck  a  little  playmate  once ; 

Was  it? — It  wasn't  you! 

I  hope  it  wasn't  you! 

I  know  a  child  —  a  boy  or  girl  — 
I  hope  that  such  are  few  — 
Who  told  a  lie;  yes,  told  a  lie! 
Was  it? — It  wasn't  you! 
It  cannot  be  'twas  you! 

There  is  a  boy  —  I  know  a  boy  — 
I  cannot  love  him,  though  — 
Who  robs  the  little  birdie's  nests; 
Is  it?  —  It  can't  be  you! 
That  bad  boy  can't  be  you! 

A  girl  there  is  —  a  girl  I  know  — 
And  I  would  love  her,  too, 
But  that  she  is  so  proud  and  vain; 
Is  it?  —  It  can't  be  you! 

That  surely  isn't  you! 

— Author  not  known. 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


BY-AND-BY. 


There's  a  little  mischief-making 

Elfin,  who  is  ever  nigh, 
Thwarting  every  undertaking; 

And  his  name  is  By-and-by. 

What  we  ought  to  do  this  minute, 

"  Will  be  better  done,"  he'll  cry, 
"  If  to-morrow  we  begin  it." 

"  Put  it  off,"  says  By-and-by. 

Those  who  heed  the  treacherous  wooing 

Will  his  faithless  guidance  rue; 
What  we  always  put  off  doing, 

Clearly  we  shall  never  do. 

We  shall  reach  what  we  endeavor 

If  on  Now  we  more  rely ; 
But  unto  the  realms  of  never 

Leads  the  pilot  By-and-by. 

— Author  not  known. 


44 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


I  ONCE  HAD  A  SWEET  LITTLE  DOLL. 

I  once  had  a  sweet  little  doll,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world; 
Her  cheeks  were  so  red  and  so  white,  dears, 

And  her  hair  was  so  charmingly  curled. 
But  I  lost  nay  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  on  the  heath  one  day; 
And  I  cried  for  her  more  than  a  week,  dears, 

But  I  never  could  find  where  she  lay. 

I  found  my  poor  little  doll,  dears, 

As  I  played  on  the  heath  one  day; 
Folks  say  she  is  terribly  changed,  dears, 

For  her  paint  is  all  washed  away ; 
And  her  arm  trodden  off  by  the  cows,  dears, 

And  her  hair  not  the  least  bit  curled; 
Yet  for  old  sake's  sake,  she  is  still,  dears, 

The  prettiest  doll  in  the  world. 

— Charles  Kingsley. 


THE  BROOK. 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  the  valley. 

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By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river; 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles; 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays ; 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  bank  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow- weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 


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And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me  as  I  travel, 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers, 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 

Among  my  skimming  swallows; 
I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 

Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come,  and  men  may  go 

But  I  go  on  forever. 

— Tennyson. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE    DANDELION. 

Bright  little  dandelion, 

Downy,  yellow  face, 
Peeping  up  among  the  grass 

With  snch  gentle  grace; 
Minding  not  the  April  wind 

Blowing  rude  and  cold, 
Brave  little  dandelion 

With  a  heart  of  gold. 

Meek  little  dandelion 

Changing  into  curls 
At  the  magic  touch  of  these 

Merry  boys  and  girls. 
When  they  pinch  thy  dainty  throat, 

Strip  thy  dress  of  green, 
On  thy  soft  and  gentle  face 

Not  a  cloud  is  seen. 

Poor  little  dandelion, 

Now  all  gone  to  seed, 
Scattered  roughly  by  the  wind 

Like  a  common  weed. 
Thou  hast  lived  thy  little  life 

Smiling  every  day ; 
Who  could  do  a  better  thing 

In  a  better  way. 

— Author  not  known. 


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IF    EVER    I    SEE. 

If  ever  I  see, 

On  bush  or  tree, 
Young  birds  in  their  pretty  nest, 

I  must  not,  in  play, 

Steal  the  birds  away, 
To  grieve  their  mother's  breast. 

My  mother,  I  know, 

Would  sorrow  so, 
Should  I  be  stolen  away ; 

So  I'll  speak  to  the  birds 

In  my  softest  words 
Nor  hurt  them  in  my  play. 

And  when  they  can  fly 

In  the  bright  blue  sky, 
They'll  warble  a  song  to  me; 

And  then  if  I'm  sad 

It  will  make  me  glad 
To  think  they  are  happy  and  free. 

— Lydia  Maria  Child. 


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Poems 

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DRIVE    THE    NAIL    ARIGHT. 

Drive  the  nail  aright, 

Hit  it  on  the  head; 
Strike  with  all  your  might, 

While  the  iron's  red. 

When  you've  work  to  do 

Do  it  with  a  will; 
They  who  reach  the  top, 

First  must  climb  the  hill. 

Standing  at  the  foot, 

Gazing  at  the  sky 
How  can  you  get  up, 

If  you  never  try. 

Though  you  stumble  oft 

Never  be  downcast 
Try  and  try  again 

You'll  succeed  at  last. 


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JACK    IN    THE  PULPIT. 

Jack  in  the  pulpit 

Preaches  today, 
Under  the  green  trees 

Just  over  the  way. 
Squirrel  and  song-sparrow, 

High  on  their  perch, 
Hear  the  sweet  lily-belts 

Ringing  to  church. 
Come,  hear  what  his  reverence 

Rises  to  say, 
In  his  low  painted  pulpit 

This  calm  Sabbath-day. 
Fair  is  the  canopy 

Over  him  seen, 
Penciled  by  Nature's  hand, 

Black,  brown,  and  green. 
Green  is  his  surplice, 

Green  are  his  bands ; 
In  his  queer  little  pulpit 

The  little  priest  stands. 

In  black  and  gold  velvet, 

So  gorgeous  to  see, 
Comes  with  his  bass  voice 

The  chorister  bee. 
Green  fingers  playing 

Unseen  on  wind-lyres, 
Low  singing  bird  voices, — 

These  are  his  choirs. 
The  violets  are  deacons 

I  know  by  the  sign 
That  the  cups  which  they  carry 

Are  purple  with  wine. 


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And  "tfee  columbines  bravely 

As  sentinels  stand 
On  the  look-out  with  all  their 

Red  trumpets  in  hand. 

Meek-faced  anemones, 

Drooping  and  sad; 
Great  yellow  violets, 

Smiling  out  glad; 
Buttercup's  faces, 

Beaming  and  bright; 
Clovers,  with  bonnets, — 

Some  red  and  some  white ; 
Daisies,  their  white  fingers 

Half-clasped  in  prayer; 
Dandelions,  proud  of 

The  gold  of  their  hair; 
Innocents,  children 

Guileless  and  frail. 
Meek  little  faces 

Upturned  and  pale ; 
Wild- wood  geraniums, 

All  in  their  best, 
Languidly  leaning 

In  purple  gauze  dressed:  — 
All  are  assembled 

This  sweet  Sabbath-day 
To  hear  what  the  priest 

In  his  pulpit  will  say. 

—Clara  Smith. 


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Poems 

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LITTLE    BROWN    HANDS. 

They  drive  home  the  cows  from  the  pasture, 

Up  through  the  long  shady  lane, 
Where  the  quail  whistles  loud  in  the  wheat-fields, 

That  are  yellow  with  ripening  grain. 
They  find,  in  the  thick  waving  grasses, 

Where  the  scarlet-lipped  strawberry  grows. 
They  gather  the  earliest  snowdrops, 

And  the  first  crimson  buds  of  the  rose. 

They  toss  the  new  hay  in  the  meadow; 

They  gather  the  elder-bloom  white ; 
They  find  where  the  dusky  grapes  purple 

In  the  soft-tinted  October  light. 
They  know  where  the  apples  hand  ripest, 

And  are  sweeter  than  Italy's  wines; 
They  know  where  the  fruit  hangs  the  thickest 

On  the  long,  thorny  blackberry- vines. 

* 
They  gather  the  delicate  sea- weeds, 

And  build  tiny  castles  of  sand; 
They  pick  up  the  beautiful  sea- shells, — 

Fairy  barks  that  have  drifted  to  land. 
They  wave  from  the  tall,  rocking  tree- tops 

Where  the  oriole's  hammock-nest  swings; 
And  at  night-time  are  folded  in  slumber 

By  a  song  that  a  fond  mother  sings- 


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Those  who  toil  bravely  are  strongest ; 

The  humble  and  poor  become  great; 
And  so  from  these  brown- handed  children 

Shall  grow  mighty  rulers  of  state. 
The  pen  of  the  author  and  statesman, — 

The  noble  and  wise  of  the  land, — 
The  sword,  and  the  chisel,  and  palette, 

Shall  be  held  in  the  little  brown  hand. 

— M.  H.  Krout 


SUPPOSE. 

Suppose  the  little  cowslip 

Should  hang  its  golden  cup, 
And  say,  "  I'm  such  a  tiny  flower, 

I'd  better  not  grow  up  " ; 
How  many  a  weary  traveler 

Would  miss  its  fragrant  smell, 
And  many  a  little  child  would  grieve 

To  lose  it  from  the  dell. 

Suppose  the  little  breezes, 

Upon  a  summer's  day, 
Should  think  themselves  too  small 

To  cool  the  traveler  on  his  way; 
Who  would  not  miss  the  smallest 

And  softest  ones  that  blow, 
And  think  they  made  a  great  mistake, 

If  they  were  talking  so ! 

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Poems 

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Suppose  the  little  dewdrop 

Upon  the  grass  should  say, 
What  can  a  little  dewdrop  do? 

I'd  better  roll  away." 
The  blade  on  which  it  rested, 

Before  the  day  was  done, 
Without  a  drop  to  moisten  it, 

Would  wither  in  the  sun. 

How  many  deeds  of  kindness 

A  little  child  can  do, 
Although  it  has  but  little  strength, 

And  little  wisdom,  too! 
It  wants  a  loving  spirit, 

Much  more  than  strength,  to  prove 
How  many  things  a  child  may  do 

For  others  by  its  love. 

— Author  not  known. 


AMERICA. 


My  country,  'tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I  sing; 
Land  where  my  fathers  died, 
Land  of  the  pilgrims'  pride, 
From  ev'ry  mountain  side 

Let  freedom  ring. 


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Poems 

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My  native  country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free, 

Thy  name  I  love ; 
I  love  thy  rocks  and  rills, 
Thy  woods'and  templed  hills; 
My  heart  with  rapture  thrills 

Like  that  above. 

Let  music  swell  the  breeze, 
And  ring  from  all  the  trees 

Sweet  freedom's  song; 
Let  mortal  tongues  awake ; 
Let  all  that  breathe  partake ; 
Let  rocks  their  silence  break, 

The  sound  prolong. 

Our  fathers'  God,  to  Thee, 
Author  of  Liberty, 
To  Thee  we  sing; 
Long  may  our  land  be  bright 
With  freedom's  holy  light; 
Protect  us  by  Thy  might, 

Great  God,  Our  King. 

— Samuel  F.  Smith. 

DON'T    GIVE    UP. 

If  you  've  tried  and  have  not  won, 

Never  stop  for  crying; 
All  that's  great  and  good  is  done 

Just  by  patient  trying. 

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Poems 

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Though  young  birds,  in  flying,  fall, 

Still  their  wings  grow  stronger; 
And  the  next  time  they  can  keep 

Up  a  little  longer. 

Though  the  sturdy  oak  has  known 

Many  a  blast  that  bowed  her, 
She  has  risen  again,  and  grown 

Loftier  and  prouder. 

If  by  easy  work  you  beat, 

Who  the  more  will  prize  you? 
Gaining  victory  from  defeat, 

That's  the  test  that  tries  you! 

— Phosbe  Gary. 


57 


FOURTH    GRADE. 


THE    HAPPIEST    HEART. 

Who  drives  the  horses  of  the  sun 

Shall  lord  it  but  a  day; 
Better  the  lowly  deed  were  done 

And  kept  the  humble  way. 

The  rust  will  find  the  sword  of  fame 

The  dust  will  hide  the  crown ; 
Ay,  none  shall  nail  so  high  his  name 

Time  will  not  tear  it  down. 

The  happiest  heart  that  ever  beat 

Was  in  some  quiet  breast, 
That  found  the  common  daylight  sweet 

And  left  to  heaven  the  rest. 

— John  Vance  Cheney. 


SOMETHING    LEFT    UNDONE. 

Labor  with  what  zeal  we  will, 
Something  still  remains  undone, 

Something  uncompleted  still 
Waits  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
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By  the  bedside,  on  the  stair, 

At  the  threshold,  near  the  gates, 
With  its  menace  or  its  prayer, 

Like  a  mendicant  it  waits; 

Waits,  and  will  not  go  away; 

Waits,  and  will  not  be  gainsaid; 
By  the  cares  of  yesterday 

Each  today  is  heavier  made; 

Till  at  length  the  burden  seems 

Greater  than  our  strength  can  bear, 

Heavy  as  the  weight  of  dreams, 
Pressing  on  us  everywhere. 

And  we  stand  from  day  to  day, 

Like  the  dwarfs  of  times  gone  by, 
Who,  as  Northern  legends  say, 

On  their  shoulders  held  the  sky. 

— Longfellow. 


SUPPOSE,  MY    LITTLE    LADY, 

Suppose,  my  little  lady, 

Your  doll  should  break  her  head; 
Could  you  make  it  whole  by  crying 

Till  your  eyes  and  nose  are  red? 


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And  wouldn't  it  be  pleasanter 

To  treat  it  as  a  joke, 
And  say  you're  glad  'twas  Dolly's, 

And  not  your  head,  that  broke? 

Suppose  you're  dressed  for  walking, 
And  the  rain  comes  pouring  down; 

Will  it  clear  off  any  sooner 
Because  you  scold  and  frown? 

And  wouldn't  it  be  nicer 

For  you  to  sniile  than  pout, 
And  so  make  sunshine  in  the  house 

When  there  is  none  without? 

Suppose  your  task,  my  little  man, 

Is  very  hard  to  get; 
Will  it  make  it  any  easier 

For  you  to  sit  and  fret? 

And  wouldn't  it  be  wiser, 

Than  waiting  like  a  dunce, 
To  go  to  work  in  earnest, 

And  learn  the  thing  at  once? 

— Phoebe  Cary. 


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Poems 

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BOYS    WANTED. 

Boys  of  spirit,  boys  of  will, 

Boys  of  muscle,  brain,  and  power, 

Fit  to  cope  with  anything, — 
These  are  wanted  every  hour. 

Not  the  weak  and  whining  drones 

Who  all  troubles  magnify; 
Not  the  watchword  of  "  I  can't," 

But  the  nobler  one,  "  I'll  try." 

Do  whate'er  you  have  to  do 

With  a  true  and  earnest  zeal ; 
Bend  your  sinews  to  the  task, 
"  Put  your  shoulder  to  the  wheel." 

Though  your  duty  may  be  hard, 

Look  not  on  it  as  an  ill; 
If  it  be  an  honest  task, 

Do  it  with  an  honest  will. 

In  the  workshop,  on  the  farm, 

Or  wherever  you  may  be, 
Prom  your  future  efforts,  boys, 

Comes  a  nation's  destiny. 

— Author  not  known. 


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THE    FOUNTAIN. 

Into  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  the  light 
Leaping  and  flashing 

From  morn  till  night; 

Into  the  moonlight, 
Whiter  than  snow, 

Waving  so  flowerlike 
When  the  winds  blow; 

Into  the  starlight 
Rushing  in  spray, 

Happy  at  midnight, 
Happy  by  day; 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Never  aweary; 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 
Still  seeming  best, 

Upward  or  downward 
Motion  thy  rest; 

Full  of  a  nature 
Nothing  can  tame, 

Changed  every  moment 
Ever  the  same; 
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Poems 

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Ceaseless  aspiring, 

Ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine 

Thy  element; 

Glorious  fountain, 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

Upward,  like  thee! 

—Lowell. 

THREE    COMPANIONS. 

We  go  on  our  walk  together  — 

Baby,  and  dog,  and  I  — 
Three  little  merry  companions 

'Neath  any  sort  of  sky; 
Blue,  as  our  baby's  eyes  are, 

Gray,  like  our  old  dog's  tail; 
Be  it  windy,  or  cloudy,  or  stormy, 

Our  courage  will  never  fail. 

Baby's  a  little  lady; 

Dog  is  a  gentleman  brave ; 
If  he  had  two  legs  as  you  have, 

He'd  kneel  to  her  like  a  slave; 
As  it  is  he  loves  and  protects  her, 

As  dog  and  gentleman  can. 
I'd  rather  be  a  kind  doggie, 

I  think,  than  a  cruel  man. 

— Dinah  Muloch-Craik. 

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A    LIFE    LESSON. 

There!   little  girl;   don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  doll,  I  know; 

And  your  tea-set  blue. 

And  your  play-house,  too, 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago; 

But  childish  troubles  will  soon  pass  by. 

There!  little  girl;   don't  cry! 

There!   little  girl;   don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  slate,  I  know; 

And  the  glad,  wild  ways 

Of  your  school -girl  days 
Are  things  of  the  long  ago; 

But  life  and  love  will  soon  come  by. 

There!  little  girl;   don't  cry! 

There!   little  girl;   don't  cry! 

They  have  broken  your  heart.  I  know; 

And  the  rainbow  gleams 

Of  your  youthful  dreams 
Are  thing  of  the  long  ago ; 

But  heaven  holds  all  for  which  you  sigh. 

There!  little  girl;   don't  cry! 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


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THE    FIFTIETH    BIRTHDAY    OF    AGASSIZ. 

It  was  fifty  years  ago 

In  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 

In  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud, 
A  child  in  its  cradle  lay. 

And  Nature,  the  old  nurse,  took 

The  child  upon  her  knee, 
Saying:   "  Here  is  a  story-book 

Thy  Father  has  written  for  thee." 

"  Come,  wander  with  me,"  she  said, 
"  Into  regions  yet  untrod; 
And  read  what  is  still  unread 
In  the  manuscripts  of  God." 

And  he  wandered  away  and  away 
With  Nature,  the  dear  old  nurse, 

Who  sang  to  him  night  and  day 
The  rhymes  of  the  universe. 

And  whenever  the  way  seemed  long, 

Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wonderful  song, 

Or  tell  a  more  marvelous  tale. 

So  she  keeps  him  still  a  child, 

And  will  not  let  him  go. 
Though  at  times  his  heart  beats  wild 

For  the  beautiful  Pays  de  Vaud; 
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Though  at  times  he  hears  in  his  dreams 

The  Ranz  des  Vaches  of.  old, 
And  the  rush  of  mountain  streams 

From  glaciers  clear  and  cold; 

And  the  mother  at  home  says,  "  Hark! 

For  his  voice  I  listen  and  yearn; 
It  is  growing  late  and  dark, 

And  my  boy  does  not  return ! ' ; 

— Longfellow. 

THE    SCULPTOR. 

Chisel  in  hand  stood  a  sculptor-boy 

With  his  marble  block  before  him, 
And  his  face  lit  up  with  a  smile  of  joy 

As  an  angel- dream  passed  o'er  him; 
He  carved  the  dream  on  that  shapeless  stone 

With  many  a  sharp  incision; 
With  heaven's  own  light  the  sculpture  shone; 

He  had  caught  that  angel- vision. 

Sculptors  of  life  are  we,  as  we  stand 

With  our  souls  uncarved  before  us, 
Waiting  the  hour  when,  at  God's  command, 

Our  life-dream  shall  pass  o'er  us. 
If  we  carve  it  then  on  the  yielding  stone 

With  many  a  sharp  incision, 
Its  heavenly  beauty  shall  be  our  own ; 

Our  lives  that  angel- vision. 

— Bishop  Doane. 

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Poems 

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ANOTHER    BLUE    DAT. 

So,  here  hath  been  dawning 

Another  blue  day; 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it 

Slip  useless  away? 

Out  of  Eternity 

This  new  Day  is  born 
Into  Eternity 

At  night  will  return. 

Behold  it  aforetime 

No  eye  ever  did; 
So  soon  it  forever 

From  all  eyes  is  hid. 

Here  hath  been  dawning 

Another  blue  day; 
Think,  wilt  thou  let  it 

Slip  useless  away? 

— Thomas  Carlyle. 


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THE    BAREFOOT    BOY. 


Blessings  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy  with  cheeks  of  tan ! 
With  thy  turned  up  pantaloons 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still, 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy!  — 
I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy ! 

O  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  day, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  in  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 

How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung, 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood- grape's  clusters  shine, 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay. 
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Poems 

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0  for  boyhood's  time  of  June, 
Crowding  years  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for! 

1  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade. 

Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight, 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall. 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine  on  bending  orchard  trees, 
Apples  of  Hesperides. 

I  was  monarch :   pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy! 

— Whittier. 


A    NIGHT    WITH    A    WOLF. 

Little  one,  come  to  my  knee! 

Hark  how  the  rain  is  pouring 
Over  the  roof,  in  the  pitch-black  night, 

And  the  wind  in  the  woods  a-roaring! 

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Poems 

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Hush,  my  darling,  and  listen, 

Then  pay  for  the  story  with  kisses : 

Father  was  lost  in  the  .pitch-black  night, 
In  just  such  a  storm  as  this  is ! 

High  up  on  the  lonely  mountains, 

Where  the  wild  men  watched  and  waited; 

Wolves  in  the  forest,  and  bears  in  the  brush, 
And  I  on  my  path  belated. 

The  rain  and  the  night  together 

Came  down,  and  the  wind  came  after, 

Bending  the  props  of  the  pine-tree  roof, 
And  snapping  many  a  rafter. 

I  crept  along  in  the  darkness, 

Stunned,  and  bruised,  and  blinded  — 

Crept  to  a  fir  with  thick-set  boughs, 
And  a  sheltering  rock  behind  it 

There,  from  the  blowing  and  raining, 
Crouching,  I  sought  to  hide  me: 

Something  rustled,  two  green  eyes  shone, 
And  a  wolf  lay  down  beside  me. 

Little  one,  be  not  frightened: 

I  and  the  wolf  together, 
Side  by  side,  through  the  long,  long  night 

Hid  from  the  awful  weather. 


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Poems 

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His  wet  fur  pressed  against  me; 

Each  of  us  warmed  the  other; 
Each  of  us  felt,  in  the  stormy  dark, 

That  beast  and  man  was  brother. 

And  when  the  falling  forest 

No  longer  crashed  in  warning, 
Each  of  us  went  from  our  hiding-place 

Forth  in  the  wild,  wet  morning. 

Darling,  kiss  me  in  payment! 

Hark,  how  the  wind  is  roaring; 
Father's  house  is  a  better  place 

When  the  stormy  rain  is  pouring! 

-  -Bayard  Taylor. 


THE    GOOD    TIME    COMING. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 
A  good  time  coming: 
We  may  not  live  to  see  the  day, 
But  earth  shall  glisten  in  the  ray 
Of  the  good  time  coming. 
Cannon  balls  may  aid  the  truth, 
But  thought's  a  weapon  stronger; 
We'll  win  the  battle  by  its  aid — 
Wait  a  little  longer. 


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There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 

A  good  time  coming : 

The  pen  shall  supersede  the  sword, 

And  Right,  not  Might,  shall  be  the  lord, 

In  the  good  time  coming. 

Worth,  not  Birth,  shall  rule  mankind, 

And  be  acknowledged  stronger : 

The  proper  impulse  has  been  given; 

Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 
A  good  time  coming: 
War  in  all  men's  eyes  shall  be 
A  monster  of  iniquity 
In  the  good  time  coming. 
Nations  shall  not  quarrel  then, 
To  prove  which  is  the  stronger; 
Nor  slaughter  men  for  glory's  sake; 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 
A  good  time  coming: 
Hateful  rivalries  of  creed 
Shall  not  make  their  martyrs  bleed 
In  the  good  time  coming. 
Religion  shall  be  shorn  of  pride, 
And  flourish  all  the  stronger ; 
And  Charity  shall  trim  her  lamp ; 
Wait  a  little  longer. 


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Poems 

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There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 
A  good  time  coming: 
The  people  shall  be  temperate, 
And  shall  love  instead  of  hate, 
In  the  good  time  coming. 
They  shall  use,  and  not  abuse, 
And  make  all  virtue  stronger: 
The  reformation  has  begun; 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

There's  a  good  time  coming,  boys, 
A  good  time  coming: 
Let  us  aid  it  all  we  can  — 
Every  woman,  every  man  — 
The  good  time  coining. 
Smallest  helps,  if  rightly  given, 
Make  the  impulse  stronger; 
'Twill  be  strong  enough  one  day; 
Wait  a  little  longer. 

— Chas.  Mackay. 


THE    BROOK    AND    THE    WAVE. 

The  brooklet  came  from  the  mountain, 

As  sang  the  bard  of  old, 
Running  with  feet  of  silver 

Over  the  sands  of  gold! 

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Far  away  in  the  briny  ocean 

There  rolled  a  turbulent  wave, 
Now  singing  along  the  sea-beach, 

Now  howling  along  the  cave. 

And  the  brooklet  has  found  the  billow, 

Though  they  flowed  so  far  apart, 
And  has  filled  with  its  freshness  and  sweetness 

That  turbulent,  bitter  heart! 

— Longfellow. 


74 


FIFTH    GRADE. 


LOVE    OF    COUNTRY. 

Breathes  there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land? 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand? 
If, such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf. 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

—Walter  Scott. 


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Poems 

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THE    VILLAGE    BLACKSMITH. 

Under  a  spreading  chestnut- tree 

The  village  smithy  stands; 
The  smith,  a  mighty  man  is  he, 

With  large  and  sinewy  hands ; 
And  the  muscles  of  his  brawny  arms 

Are  strong  as  iron  bands. 

His  hair  is  crisp,  and  black,  and  long; 

His  face  is  like  the  tan; 
His  brow  is  wet  with  honest  sweat ; 

He  earns  whatever  he  can, 
And  looks  the  whole  world  in  the  face, 

For  he  owes  not  any  man. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  till  night, 
You  can  hear  his  bellows  blow; 

You  can  hear  him  swing  his  heavy  sledge 
With  measured  beat  and  slow, 

Like  the  sexton  ringing  the  village  bell, 
When  the  evening  sun  is  low. 

And  children  coining  home  from  school 

Look  in  at  the  open  door; 
They  love  to  see  the  flaming  forge, 

And  hear  the  bellows  roar, 
And  catch  the  burning  sparks  that  fly 

Like  chaff  from  a  threshing  floor. 


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Poems 

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He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  church, 

And  sits  among  his  boys; 
He  hears  the  parson  pray  and  preach, 

He  hears  his  daughter's  voice 
Singing  in  the  village  choir, 

And  it  makes  his  heart  rejoice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  her  mother's  voice, 

Singing  in  Paradise ! 
He  needs  must  think  of  her  once  more, 

How  in  the  grave  she  lies; 
And  with  his  hard,  rough  hand  he  wipes 

A  tear  out  of  his  eyes. 

Toiling,  rejoicing,  sorrowing, 

Onward  through  life  he  goes; 
Each  morning  sees  some  task  begun, 

Each  evening  sees  it  close; 
Something  attempted,  something  done, 

Has  earned  a  night's  repose. 

Thanks,  thanks  to  thee,  my  worthy  friend, 

For  the  lesson  thou  has  taught ! 
Thus,  at  the  naming  forge  of  life 

Our  fortunes  must  be  wrought; 
Thus,  on  its  sounding  anvil  shaped 

Each  burning  deed  and  thought. 

— Longfellow. 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


BREAK,    BREAK,    BREAK. 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea! 

And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 

But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O,  Sea! 

But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

— Tennyson. 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE    VICAR'S    SERMON. 

Whatsoe'r  you  find  to  do, 

Do  it,  boys,  with  all  your  might: 
Never  be  a  little  true, 

Or  a  little  in  the  right. 
Trifles  even  lead  to  heaven ; 

Trifles  make  the  life  of  man : 
So  in  all  things,  great  and  small  things, 

Be  as  thorough  as  you  can. 

Let  no  speck  their  surface  dim, — 

Spotless  truth  and  honor  bright; 
I'd  not  give  a  fig  for  him 

Who  says  that  any  lie  is  white! 
He  who  falters,  twists  or  alters 

Little  atoms  when  we  speak, 
May  deceive  me,  but,  believe  me, 

To  himself  he  is  a  sneak. 

Help  the  weak  if  you  are  strong; 

Love  the  old  if  you  are  young ; 
Own  a  fault  if  you  are  wrong ; 

If  you're  angry,  hold  your  tongue. 
In  each  duty  there's  a  beauty, 

If  your  eyes  you  do  not  shut, 
Just  as  surely  and  securely 

As  a  kernel  in  a  nut. 


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Poems 

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Love  with  all  your  heart  and  soul, 

Love  with  eye  and  ear  and  touch 
That's  the  moral  of  the  whole: 

You  can  never  love  too  much ! 
'Tis  the  glory  of  the  story 

In  our  babyhood  begun ; 
Hearts  without  it,  never  doubt  it, 

Are  as  worlds  without  a  sun. 

If  you  think  a  word  will  please, 

Say  it,  if  it  is  but  true; 
Words  may  give  delight  with  ease 

When  no  act  is  asked  from  you. 
Words  may  often  soothe  and  soften 

Gild  a  joy  and  heal  a  pain; 
They  are  treasures  yielding  pleasures 

It  is  wicked  to  retain. 

— Charles  Mackay. 


THE    THREE    FISHERS. 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  away  to  the  west  — 
Away  to  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down, 
Each  thought  on  the  woman  who  loved  him  the  best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  them  out  of  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep; 
And  there's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 
Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

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Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 
And  they  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down; 
Thej  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  night-rack  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and  brown; 
But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep, 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 

Three  corpses  lay  out  on  the  shining  sands 
In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down, 
And  the  women  are  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands 
For  those  who  will  never  come  home  to  the  town ; 
For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep  — 
And  the  sooner  it's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep  — 
And  good-bye  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

—  Charles  Kingsley. 


NOBILITY. 
True  worth  is  in  being,  not  seeming, 

In  doing  each  day  that  goes  by, 
Some  little  good, — not  in  dreaming 

Of  great  things  to  do  by  and  by. 

For,  whatever  men  say  in  blindness, 
And  in  spite  of  the  fancies  of  youth, 

There's  nothing  so  kingly  as  kindness, 
And  nothing  so  royal  as  truth. 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


We  get  back  our  mete  as  we  measure, 

We  cannot  do  wrong  and  feel  right, 
Nor  can  we  give  pain  and  feel  pleasure, 

For  justice  avenges  each  slight. 

The  air  for  the  wing  of  the  sparrow, 

The  bush  for  the  robin  and  wren, 
But  always  the  path  that  is  narrow 

And  straight  for  the  children  of  men. 

We  cannot  make  bargains  for  blisses, 

Nor  catch  them  like  fishes  in  nets; 
And  sometimes  the  thing  our  life  misses 

Helps  more  than  the  thing  that  it  gets. 

For  good  lieth  not  in  pursuing, 

Nor  gaining  of  great  nor  of  small; 
But  just  in  the  doing,  and  doing 

As  we  would  be  done  by,  is  all. 

Through  envy,  through  malice,  through  hating> 

Against  the  world  early  and  late 
No  jot  of  our  courage  abating, — 

Our  part  is  to  work  and  to  wait. 

And  slight  is  the  sting  of  his  trouble 
Whose  winnings  are  less  than  his  worth ; 

For  he  who  is  honest  is  noble, 
Whatever  his  fortune  or  birth. 

— Alice  Gary. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG. 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  know  not  where; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  ah-, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight  of  song? 

Long,  long  afterwards,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

— Longfellow. 


THE    LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIMS. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high  on  a  stern  and  rock-bound 

coast, 
And  the   woods   against  a  stormy   sky  their   giant   branches 

tossed ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark  the  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark  on  the  wild  New 

England  shore. 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes,  they,  the  true-hearted,  came; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  stirring  drums,  and  the  trumpet  that  sings 

of  fame; 

Not  as  the  flying  come,  in  silence  and  in  fear;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom  with  their  hymns 

of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang,  and  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 
And  the  sounding   aisles  of   the  dim  woods   rang  with    the 

anthems  of  the  free! 

The  ocean  eagle  soared  from  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared, —  this  was  their 

welcome  home! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair  amiast  that  pilgrim  band ; 

Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there  away  from  their  child- 
hood's land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye,  lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 

There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high,  and  the  fiery  heart 
of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar?  Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war? — They  sought  a  faith's 

pure  shrine! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground,  the  soil  where  first  they  trod:  — 
They  left   unstained,  what   there  they   found, —  Freedom   to 

worship  God. 

— Mrs  Hemans. 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


HOW   SLEEP   THE   BRAVE! 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mold, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 

— William  Collins. 


ONE   BY  ONE. 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, 
One  by  one  the  moments  fall; 

Some  are  coming,  some  are  going; 
Do  not  strive  to  catch  them  all. 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee ; 

Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each; 
Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee; 

Learn  thou  first  what  these  can  teach. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


One  by  one,  bright  gifts  from  heaven, 

Joys  are  sent  thee  here  below; 
Take  them  readily  when  given, — 

Ready,  too,  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall  meet  thee; 

Do  not  fear  an  armed  band; 
One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee, — 

Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

Do  not  look  at  life's  long  sorrow; 

See  how  small  each  moment's  pain; 
God  will  help  thee  for  tomorrow 

Every  day  begins  again. 

Every  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 

Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear; 
Luminous  the  crown  and  holy, 

If  thou  set  each  gem  with  care. 

Hours  are  golden  links, —  God's  token 

Reaching  heaven;  but  one  by  one 
Take  them,  lest  the  chain  be  broken 

Ere  thy  pilgrimage  be  done. 

— Adelaide  A.  Proctor. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE  BUILDERS. 


All  are  architects  of  Fate, 

Working  in  these  walls  of  Time; 

Some  with  massive  deeds  and  great, 
Some  with  ornaments  of  rhyme. 

Nothing  useless  is,  or  low; 

Each  thing  in  its  place  is  best; 
And  what  seems  but  idle  show 

Strengthens  and  supports  the  rest 

For  the  structure  that  we  raise, 
Time  is  with  materials  filled; 

Our  todays  and  yesterdays 

Are  the  blocks  with  which  we  build. 

Truly  shape  and  fasten  these ; 

Leave  no  yawning  gaps  between; 
Think  not,  because  no  man  sees, 

Such  things  will  remain  unseen. 

In  the  elder  days  of  art, 

Builders  wrought  with  greatest  care 
Each  minute  and  unseen  part; 

For  the  Gods  see  everywhere. 

Let  us  do  our  work  as  wel! 

Both  the  unseen  and  the  seen; 
Make  the  house  where  Gods  may  dwell 

Beautiful,  entire,  and  clean. 

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Poems 

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Else  our  lives  are  incomplete, 

Standing  in  these  walls  of  Time, 
Broken  stairways,  where  the  feet 

Stumble  as  they  seek  to  climb. 

Build  today,  then,  strong  and  sure, 

With  a  firm  and  ample  base ; 
And  ascending  and  secure 

Shall  tomorrow  find  its  place. 

Thus  alone  can  we  attain 

To  those  turrets,  where  the  eye 
Sees  the  world  as  one  vast  plain, 

And  one  boundless  reach  of  sky. 

— Longfellow . 


THE    WILL    AND    THE    WAY. 

It  was  a  noble  Roman, 

In  Rome's  imperial  day, 
Who  heard  a  coward  croaker, 

Before  the  Castle  say: 
They're  safe  in  such  a  fortress; 

There  is  no  way  to  shake  it! " 
On — on,"  exclaimed  the  hero, 

"  I'll  find  a  way,  or  make  it!" 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Is  Fame  your  aspiration? 

Her  path  is  steep  and  high; 
In  vain  he  seeks  her  temple, 

Content  to  gaze  and  sigh: 
The  shining  throne  is  waiting, 

Bur  he  alone  can  take  it 
Who  says,  with  Roman  firmness, 

"  I'll  find  a  ivay,  or  make  it!" 

Is  Learning  your  ambition? 

There  is  no  royal  road; 
Alike  the  peer  and  peasant 

Must  climb  to  her  abode : 
Who  feels  the  thirst  of  knowledge, 

In  Helicon  may  slake  it, 
If  he  has  still  the  Roman  will 

"  To  find  a  way,  or  make  it!" 

— John  Gr.  Saxe. 


MY    BOOKS. 

Ah!  well  I  love  these  books  of  mine, 

That  stand  so  trimly  on  their  shelves, 
With  here  and  there  a  broken  line 

(Fat  "  quartos  "  jostling  modest  "  twelves  ")r 
A  curious  company,  I  own; 

The  poorest  ranking  with  their  betters; 
In  brief, — a  thing  almost  unknown, — 

A  pure  Democracy  of  Letters. 

89 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


A  motley  gathering  are  they, — 

Some  fairly  worth  their  weight  in  gold; 
Some  just  too  good  to  throw  away; 

Some  scarcely  worth  the  place  they  hold. 
Yet  well  I  love  them,  one  and  all, — 

These  friends  so  meek  and  unobtrusive, 
Who  never  fail  to  come  at  call, 

Nor  (if  I  scold  them)  turn  abusive! 

If  I  have  favorites  here  and  there, 

And,  like  a  monarch,  pick  and  choose, 

I  never  meet  an  angry  stare 
That  this  I  take  and  that  refuse; 

No  discords  rise  my  soul  to  vex 
Among  these  peaceful  book-relations. 

Nor  envious  strife  of  age  or  sex 

,   To  mar  my  quiet  lucubrations. 

And  they  have  still  another  merit, 

Which  other  where  one  vainly  seeks, 
Whatever  may  be  an  author's  spirit, 

He  never  uninvited  speaks ; 
And  should  he  prove  a  fool  or  clown, 

Unworth  the  precious  time  you're  spending. 
How  quickly  you  can  "  put  him  down," 

Or  "  shut  him  up,"  without  offending! 

Here — pleasing  sight! — the  touchy  brood 

Of  critics  from  dissension  cease ; 
And — stranger  still! — no  more  at  feud, 

Polemics  smile,  and  keep  the  peace. 

90 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


See!  side  by  side,  all  free  from  strife 

(Save  what  the  heavy  page  may  smother), 

The  gentle  "  Christians  "  who  in  life, 
For  conscience'  sake,  had  burned  each  other! 

I  call  them  friends,  these  quiet  books; 

And  well  the  title  they  may  claim, 
Who  always  gives  me  cheerful  looks; 

(What  living  friend  has  done  the  same!) 
And,  for  companionship,  how  few, 

As  these,  my  cronies  ever  present, 
Of  all  the  friends  I  ever  knew 

Have  been  so  useful  and  so  pleasant? 

— John  G.  Saxe. 


THE    LIGHT    THAT    IS    FELT. 

A  tender  child  of  summers  three, 
Seeking  her  little  bed  at  night, 
Paused  on  the  dark  stairway  timidly. 
Oh,  mother!   Take  my  hand,"  said  she 
And  then  the  dark  will  all  be  light." 

We  older  children  grope  our  way 
From  dark  behind  to  dark  before ; 
And  only  when  our  hands  we  lay, 
Dear  Lord,  in  Thine,  the  night  is  day, 
And  there  is  darkness  nevermore. 


91 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Reach  downward  to  the  sunless  days 
Wherein  our  guides  are  blind  as  we. 
And  faith  is  small  and  hope  delays; 
Take  Thou  the  hands  of  prayer  we  raise, 
And  let  us  feel  the  light  of  Thee! 

— Whittier. 


DECORATION    DAY. 

Sleep,  comrades,  sleep  and  rest 

On  this  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms, 

Where  foes  no  more  molest, 
Nor  sentry's  shot  alarms! 

Ye  have  slept  on  the  ground  before, 

And  started  to  your  feet 
At  the  cannon's  sudden  roar, 

Or  the  drum's  redoubling  beat. 

But  in  this  camp  of  death 

No  sound  your  slumber  breaks ; 

Here  is  no  fevered  breath, 
No  wound  that  bleeds  and  aches. 

All  is  repose  and  peace, 

Untrampled  lies  the  sod ; 
The  shouts  of  battle  cease, 

It  is  the  truce  of  God! 


92 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Rest,  comrades,  rest  and  sleep! 

The  thoughts  of  men  shall  be 
As  sentinels  to  keep 

Your  rest  from  danger  free. 

Your  silent  tents  of  green 

We  deck  with  fragrant  flowers; 
Yours  has  the  suffering  been, 

The  memorv  shall  be  ours. 

— Longfellow. 


SOMEBODY'S   MOTHER. 

The  woman  was  old  and  ragged  and  gray, 
And  bent  with  the  chill  of  a  winter's  day 
The  street  was  wet  with  a  recent  snow, 
And  the  woman's  feet  was  aged  and  slow; 
She  stood  at  the  crossing  and  waited  long, 
Alone,  uncared  for,  amid  a  throng. 

Past  the  woman  so  old  and  gray, 

Hastened  some  children  on  their  way, 

Nor  offered  a  helping  hand  to  her, 

So  meek,  so  timid,  afraid  to  stir 

Lest  the  carriage  wheels  or  horses'  feet 

Should  crowd  her  down  in  the  slippery  street. 

At  last  came  one  of  the  merry  troop, — 
The  gayest,  laddie  of  all  the  group ; 
He  paused  beside  her  and  whispered  low, 
I'll  help  you  across,  if  you  wish  to  go," 
93 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Her  aged  hand  on  his  strong  young  arm 
She  placed;   and  so,  without  hurt  or  harm, 
He  guided  the  trembling  feet  along, 
Proud  that  his  own  were  firm  and  strong. 

— Author  unknown. 

THE    HERITAGE. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 
And  piles  of  brick  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares; 

The  banks  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 
A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 

And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 

A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 

His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare; 
With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 

Of  toiling  hands  with  brown  arms  bare, 

And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

94 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 

A  rank  adjuged  by  toil- won  merit, 

Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  sou  inherit? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son!    there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands, 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

95 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


O  poor  man's  son,  scorn  not  thy  state; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 


heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last  ; 
Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  of  a  well-filled  past; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 

—  Lowell. 

PSALM    XXIII. 

1.  The  Lord  is  my  shepherd;   I  shall  not  want. 

2.  He  niaketh  me  lie  down  in  green  pastures:   He  leadeth  me 

beside  the  still  waters. 

3.  He  restoreth  my  soul:  He  leadeth  me  in  the  paths  of  right- 

eousness for  His  name's  sake. 

4.  Yea,  though  I  walk  through   the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 

death,  I  will  fear  no  evil:  for  Thou  art  with  me,  Thy 
rod  and  Thy  staff  they  comfort  me. 

5.  Thou  preparest  a  table  before  me  in  the  presence  of  mine 

enemies  :   Thou   anointest  my  head  with   oil  ;  my  cup 
runneth  over. 

6.  Surely  goodness  and  mercy  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of 

my  life  ;  and  I  will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  forever. 

96 


SIXTH  GRADE. 


THANKSGIVING    HYMN    FOR    CALIFORNIA 

Our  forefathers  gave  thanks  to  God 

In  the  land  by  the  stormy  sea, 
For  bread  hard  wrung  from  the  iron  sod 

In  cold  and  misery. 
Though  every  day  meant  toil  and  strife 

In  the  land  by  the  stormy  sea ; 
They  thanked  their  God  for  the  gift  of  life, 

How  much  the  more  should  we ! 

Stern  frost  had  they,  full  many  a  day. 

Strong  ice  on  the  stormy  sea; 
Long  months  of  snow,  grey  clouds  hung  low, 

And  a  cold  wind  endlessly; 
Winter  and  war  with  an  alien  race, 

But  they  were  alive  and  free ! 
And  they  thanked  their  God  for  His  good  grace — 

How  much  the  more  should  we ! 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


For  we  have  a  land  all  sunny  with  gold, 

A  land  by  a  summer  sea; 
Gold  in  the  earth  for  our  hands  to  hold, 

Gold  in  blossom  and  tree. 
Comfort  and  plenty  and  beauty  and  peace 

From  the  mountains  down  to  the  sea! 
They  thanked  their  God  for  a  year's  increase — 

How  much  the  more  should  we ! 

— Mrs.  Stetson. 


THE    DAY    IS    DONE. 

The  day  is  done,  and  the  darkness 
Falls  from  the  wings  of  Night, 

As  a  feather  is  wafted  downward 
From  an  eagle  in  his  flight. 

I  see  the  lights  of  the  village 

Gleam  through  the  rain  and  the  mist, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  comes  o'er  me 

That  my  soul  cannot  resist: 

A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 

As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain. 
98 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Come,  read  to  me  some  poems, 
Some  simple  and  heartfelt  lay, 

That  shall  soothe  this  restless  feeling, 
And  banish  the  thoughts  of  day. 

Not  from  the  grand  old  masters 
Not  from  the  bards  sublime, 

Whose  distant  footsteps  echo 
Through  the  corridors  of  Time. 

For,  like  strains  of  martial  music, 
Their  mighty  thoughts  suggest 

Life's  endless  toil  and  endeavor; 
And  tonight  I  long  for  rest. 

Read  from  some  humbler  poet, 

Whose  songs  gushed  from  his  heart, 

As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 
Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start; 

Who,  through  long  days  of  labor, 

And  nights  devoid  of  ease, 
Still  heard  in  his  soul  the  music 

Of  wonderful  melodies. 

Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer. 


99 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Then  read  from  the  treasured  volume 

The  poems  of  thy  choice, 
And  lend  to  the  rhyme  of  the  poet 

The  beauty  of  thy  voice. 

And  the  night  shall  be  filled  with  music, 

And  the  cares  that  infest  the  day, 
Shall  fold  their  tents,  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  away. 

— Longfellow. 


THE    LAST    LEAF, 

I  saw  him  once  before, 
As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

100 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone." 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 

On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago — 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow; 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

Is  in  his  laugh. 


101 


Foews 

for  Memorizing 


I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

— Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


RING    OUT,    WILD    BELLS. 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 

The  flying  clouds,  the  frosty  light; 

The  year  is  dying  in  the  night; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die! 

Ring  out  the  Old,  ring  in  the  New; 
Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow; 
The  year  is  going — let  him  go; 

Ring  out  the  False,  ring  in  the  True! 


102 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 

King  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 
Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind ! 

Ring  out  the  slowly  dying  cause, 
And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife, 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws! 

Ring  out  thfe  waut,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 

Ring  out,  ring  out,  my  mournful  rhymes, 
But  ring  the  fuller  Minstrel  in ! 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  Good! 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease, 

Ring  out  the  narrow  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace! 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land — 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be ! 

— Alfred  Tennyson. 


103 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


SOLDIER,    REST! 

Soldier,  rest!     Thy  warfare  o'er, 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking; 

Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 
Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 

In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing; 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 

Soldier,  rest!     Thy  warfare  o'er, 

Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 

Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 
Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing; 

Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 

Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come, 

At  the  daybreak,  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum , 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 

Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near; 

Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here; 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 

Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping. 

—Sir  Walter  Scott. 

104 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


A    SONG. 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  niy  dear; 

There  is  ever  a  something  sings  always : 
There's  the  song  of  the  lark  when  the  skies  are  clear, 

And  the  song  of  the  thrush  when  the  skies  are  gray. 

The  sunshine  showers  across  the  grain, 

And  the  bluebird  trills  in  the  orchard  tree ; 

And  in  and  out,  when  the  eaves  drip  rain, 
The  swallows  are  twittering  ceaselessly. 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear, 

Be  the  skies  above  or  dark  or  fair, 
There  is  ever  a  song  that  our  hearts  may  hear — 
There  is  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear — 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere! 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear, 
In  the  midnight  black,  or  the  mid-day  blue: 

The  robin  pipes  when  the  sun  is  here, 
And  the  cricket  chirrups  the  whole  night  through. 

The  buds  may  blow,  and  the  fruit  may  grow, 
And  the  autumn  leaves  drop  crisp  and  sear; 

But  whether  the  sun,  or  the  rain,  or  the  snow, 
There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear. 


105 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear, 

Be  the  skies  above  or  dark  or  fairt 
There  is  ever  a  song  that  our  hearts  may  hear — 
There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere,  my  dear — 

There  is  ever  a  song  somewhere ! 

— James  Whitcomb  Riley. 


THE    AMERICAN    FLAG. 

When  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  'to  the  air, 

She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there. 

She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 

And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 

With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 

Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun, 

She  called  her  eagle  bearer  down, 

And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 

The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 

106 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


And  rolls  the  thunder- drum  of  heaven,— 
Child  of  the  sun!   to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free ; 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle- stroke; 
And  bid  its  blending  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  clouds  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory! 

Flag  of  the  brave!   thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high! 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on, 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn , 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance ; 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreathes  the  battle- shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


107 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Flag  of  the  seas!    on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave, 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frightened  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack: 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 
Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us! 

— Joseph  Rodman  Drake. 


THE    RAINY    DAY. 

The  day  is  cold,  and  dark,  and  dreary; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
The  vine  still  clings  to  the  mouldering  wall, 
But  at  every  gust  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
And  the  day  is  dark  and  dreary. 

108 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


My  life  is  cold,  and  dark  and  dreary; 
It  rains,  and  the  wind  is  never  weary; 
My  thoughts  still  cling  to  the  mouldering  Past, 
But  the  hopes  of  youth  fall  thick  in  the  blast, 
And  the  daj's  are  dark  and  dreary. 

Be  still,  sad  heart!   and  cease  repining; 
Behind  the  clouds  is  the  sun  still  shining; 
Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all, 
Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 

Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary. 

— Longfellow. 


BURIAL    OF    SIR    JOHN    MOORE. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

"We  buried  him  darkly,  at  dead  of  night, 
The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning, 

By  the  struggling  moonbeams  misty  light, 
And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  inclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  wound  him; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him; 
But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him ! 

k**- ' " 
But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  for  retiring, 
And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 

That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

) 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory! 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory, 

—Charles  Wolfe. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


OVER    AND    OVER    AGAIN. 

Over  and  over  again, 

No  matter  which  way  I  turn, 
I  always  find  in  the  book  of  life 

Some  lesson  I  have  to  learn. 
I  must  take  my  turn  at  the  mill, 

I  must  grind  out  the  golden  grain, 
I  must  work  at  my  task  with  a  resolute  will, 

Over  and  over  again. 

We  cannot  measure  the  need 

Of  even  the  tiniest  flower, 
Nor  check  the  flow  of  the  golden  sands, 

That  run  through  a  single  hour; 
But  the  morning  dews  must  fall, 

And  the  sun  and  the  summer  rain 
Must  do  their  part  and  perform  it  all 

Over  and  over  again. 

Over  and  over  again 

The  brook  through  the  meadows  flows, 
And  over  and  over  again 

The  ponderous  mill- wheel  goes. 
Once  doing  will  not  suffice, 

Though  doing  be  not  in  vain ; 
And  a  blessing  failing  us  once  or  twice, 

May  come  if  we  try  again. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


The  path  that  has  once  been  trod 

Is  never  so  rough  to  the  feet; 
And  the  lesson  we  once  have  learned 

Is  never  so  hard  to  repeat. 
Though  sorrowful  tears  must  fall, 

And  the  heart  to  its  depths  be  driven 
With  storm  and  tempest,  we  need  them  all 

To  render  us  meet  for  Heaven. 

— Josephine  Pollard. 


A     PSALM    OF    LIFE. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 
Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! 

For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 
And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !    Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way; 

But  to  act,  that  each  tomorrow 
Finds  us  farther  than  today. 

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Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be. not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act — act  in  the  living  present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  overhead. 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 

We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 
And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 

Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time;  — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 
A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

— Longfellow. 


113 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


AN    ORDER    FOR    A    PICTURE. 

Oh,  good  painter,  tell  me  time, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw? 

Aye?     Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  corn  fields,  a  little  brown, — 
The  picture  must  not  be  overbright, — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 
Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 
Away  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 
Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  the  tassels, — cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around, — 
(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound! )  — 

These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  born, 
Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows  open  wide, — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush : 

Perhaps  you  have  seen,  some  day, 
Roses  crowding  the  self-same  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 

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Listen  closer.     When  you  have  done 
With  woods  and  cornfields  and  grazing  herds, 

A  lady,  the  loveliest  ever  the  sun 
Looked  down  upon  you  must  paint  for  me: 
Oh,  if  I  could  only  make  you  see 

The  clear  blue  eyes,  the  tender  smile, 
The  sovereign  sweetness,  the  gentle  grace, 
The  woman  soul,  and  the  angel's  face 

That  are  beaming  on  me  all  the  while , 
I  need  not  speak  these  foolish  words: 

Yet  one  word  tells  you  all  I  would  say, — 
She  is  my  mother:    you  will  agree 

That  all  the  rest  may  be  thrown  away. 

Two  little  urchins  at  her  knee 

You  must  paint,  sir:   one  like  me, — 

The  other  with  a  clearer  brow 
And  the  light  of  his  adventurous  eyes 
Flashing  with  boldest  enterprise : 
At  ten  years  old  he  went  to  sea, — 

God  knoweth  if  he  be  living  now, — 
He  sailed  in  the  good  ship  Commodore, 
Nobodj-  ever  crossed  her  track 
To  bring  us  news,  and  she  never  came  back. 

Ah,  it  is  twenty  long  years  and  more 
Since  that  old  ship  went  out  of  the  bay 

With  my  great-hearted  brother  on  her  deck: 

I  watched  him  till  he  shrank  to  a  speck, 
And  his  face  was  toward  me  all  the  way. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Bright  his  hah'  was,  a  golden  brown, 
The  time  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee: 

That  beauteous  head,  if  it  did  go  down, 
Carried  sunshine  into  the  sea! 

Out  in  the  fields  one  summer  night 
We  were  together,  half  afraid 
Of  the  corn-leaves'  rustling,  and  of  the  shade 

Of  the  high  hills,  stretching  so  still  and  far, — 
Loitering  till  after  the  low  little  light 

Of  the  candle  shone  through  the  open  door, 
And  over  the  haystack's  pointed  top, 
All  of  a  tremble  and  ready  to  drop, 

The  first  half -hour,  the  great  yellow  star, 
That  we,  with  staring,  ignorant  eyes, 
Had  often  and  often  watched  to  see 

Propped  and  held  in  its  place  in  the  skies 
By  the  fork  of  a  tall  red  mulberry- tree, 

Which  close  in  the  edge  of  our  flaxtree  grew, — 
Dead  at  the  top, — just  one  branch  full 
Of  leaves,  notched  round,  and  lined  with  wool, 

From  which  it  tenderly  shook  the  dew 
Over  our  heads,  when  we  came  to  play 
In  its  hand-breath  of  shadow,  day  after  day. 
Afraid  to  go  home,  sir;  for  one  of  us  bore 
A  nest  full  of  speckled  and  thin-shelled  eggs, — 
The  other,  a  bird,  held  fast  by  the  legs, 
Not  so  big  as  a  straw  of  wheat : 
The  berries  we  gave  her  she  wouldn't  eat, 
But  cried  and  cried,  till  we  held  her  bill, 
So  slim  and  shining,  to  keep  her  still. 

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For  Memorizing 

At  last  we  stood  at  our  mother's  knee. 

Do  you  think,  sir,  if  you  try, 

You  can  paint  the  look  of  a  lie? 

If  you  can,  pray  have  the  grace 

To  put  it  solely  in  the  face 
Of  the  urchin  that  is  likest  me : 

I  think  'twas  solely  mine,  indeed: 

But  that's  no  matter, —  paint  it  so; 

The  eyes  of  our  mother —  (take  good  heed) — 
Looking  not  on  the  nestful  of  eggs, 
Nor  the  fluttering  bird,  held  so  fast  by  the  legs, 
But  straight  through  our  faces  down  to  our  lies, 
And,  oh,  with  such  injured,  reproachful  surprise! 
I  felt  my  heart  bleed  where  that  glance  went,  as  though 
A  sharp  blade  struck  through  it.     You,  sir,  know 

That  you  on  the  canvass  are  to  repeat 
Things  that  are  fairest,  things  most  sweet, — 
Woods  and  corn  fields  and  mulberry- tree, — 
The  mother, —  the  lads,  with  their  bird  at  her  knee: 

But,  oh,  that  look  of  reproachful  woe! 
High  as  the  heavens  your  name  I'll  shout, 
If  you  paint  me  the  picture  and  leave  that  out. 

— Alice  Gary. 


117 


SEVENTH    GRADE. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 


And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays; 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green; 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace. 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 

And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings: 

He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest — 

In  the  nice  ear  of  nature  which  song  is  the  best? 

#        *        *        *        *        *        #        * 

—  Lowell. 


COLUMBUS  — WESTWARD.* 

Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores, 

Behind  the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores, 

Before  him  only  shoreless  seas. 
The  good  mate  said:     "  Now  we  must  pray, 

For  lo!  the  very  stars  are  gone. 
Brave  Adm'rl,  speak;  what  shall  I  say?" 

"  Why,  say:    '  Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on! ' J 

My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day; 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak." 
The  stout  mate  thought  of  home ;  a  spray 

Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek. 
What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'rl,  say 

If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?" 
Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day: 

'  Sail  on !  sail  on !  sail  on !  sail  on ! '  " 


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For  Memorizing 

They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might  blow, 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said : 
'  Why,  not  even  God  would  know 

Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead. 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 

For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 
Now  speak,  brave  Adm'rl;  speak  and  say — ' 

He  said :    ' '  Sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on !  " 

They  sailed.     They  sailed.     Then  spake  the  mate: 

This  mad  sea  shows  its  teeth  to-night. 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait, 

With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite! 
Brave  Adm'rl,  say  but  one  good  word; 

What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone? 
The  words  leapt  as  a  leaping  sword: 
Sail  on !  sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! " 

Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 

And  peered  through  darkness.     Ah,  that  night 
Of  all  dark  nights !     And  then  a  speck  — 

Alight!     Alight!     Alight!     Alight! 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled! 

It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world ;  he  gave  that  world 

Its  grandest  lesson :     ' '  On !  sail  on ! " 

—  Joaquin  Miller. 


*In  a  recent  critical  article  in  the  London  Athenaeum  is  the  sentence:  "  In  point  of 
power,  workmanship  and  feeling,  among  all  the  poems  written  by  Americans,  we  are 
inclined  to  give  first  place  to  the  Port  of  Ships'  (or  Columbus  :)  by  Joaquin  Miller." 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


BUGLE    SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story ; 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow!   set  the  wild  echoes  flying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes  —  dying,  dying,  dying! 

O  hark,  0  hear!   how  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going! 
O  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  Elf  land  faintly  blowing! 
Blow!   let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying; 
Blow,  bugle;  answer,  echoes  —  dying,  dying,  dying! 

O  love!   they  die  in  yon  rich  sky; 

They  faint  on  hill,  or  field  or  river: 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow!   set  the  wild  echoes  flying; 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer  —  dying,  dying,  dying. 

— Tennyson. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


TO    A    SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit  — 

Bird  thou  never  wert  — 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  spriugest, 

Like  a  cloud  of  fire : 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  setting  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  bright'ning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run; 
Like  an  embodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 

Of  that  silvery  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel,  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thon  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not ; 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower; 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden, 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view; 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

'  In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower 'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- winged  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  fresh  and  clear,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine; 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chant, 
Match 'd  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt, — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

What  object  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  loVe  of  thine  own  kind?     What  ignorance  of  pain? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  sannot  be; 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee ; 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking,  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not ; 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought, 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride  and  fear, 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 


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Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found. 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That?  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

— Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


SAIL   ON,  O    SHIP    OF    STATE! 

Thou,  too,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State! 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great! 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  the  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thj  fate ! 

We  know  what  Master  laid  thy  keel, 
What  Workmen  wrought  thy  ribs  of  steel, 
Who  made  each  mast,  and  sail,  and  rope, 
What  anvils  rang,  what  hammers  beat, 
In  what  a  forge  and  what  a  heat 
Were  shaped  the  anchors  of  thy  hope ! 


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For  Memorizing 


Fear  not  each  sudden  sound  and  shock, 
'Tis  of  the  wave  and  not  the  rock; 
'Tis  but  the  napping  of  the  sail, 
And  not  a  rent  made  by  the  gale ! 

In  spite  of  rock  and  tempest's  roar, 

In  spite  of  false  lights  on  the  shore, 

Sail  on,  nor  fear  to  breast  the  sea! 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  are  all  with  thee; 

Our  hearts,  our  hopes,  our  prayers,  our  tears, 

Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears, 

Are  all  with  thee  —  are  all  with  thee ! 

—  Longfellow. 


WHAT  CONSTITUTES  A  STATE  ? 

What  constitutes  a  state! 

Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 
Thick  wall  or  moated  gate; 

Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned; 
Not  bays  and  broad- arm  ports, 

Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride; 
Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 

Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 
No :  —  men,  high-minded  men, 

With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 
In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 

As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude, — 


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Men  who  their  duties  know, 

But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain, 
Prevent  the  long  aimed  blow, 

And  crush  the  t3Trant  while  they  rend  the  chain: 
These  constitute  a  state; 

And  sovereign  law,  that  state's  collected  will, 
O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate, 

Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

—  Sir  William  Jones. 

CROSSING  THE  BAR. 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark; 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 
When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

—  Tennyson. 
128 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA. 

The  sea  awoke  at  midnight  from  its  sleep, 
And  round  the  pebbly  beaches  far  and  wide 
I  heard  the  first  wave  of  the  rising  tide 
Rush  onward  with  uninterrupted  sweep : 

A  voice  out  of  the  silence  of  the  deep; 
A  sound  mysteriously  multiplied 
As  of  a  cataract  from  the  mountain  side, 
Or  roar  of  winds  upon  a  wooded  steep. 

So  comes  to  us  at  times,  from  the  unknown 
And  inaccessible  solitudes  of  being, 
The  rushing  of  the  sea-tides  of  the  soul; 

And  inspirations,  that  we  deem  our  own, 

Are  some  divine  foreshadowing  and  foreseeing 
Of  things  beyond  our  reason  or  control. 

—  Longfellow. 


SNOW-BOUND. 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon, 
Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 
Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 
A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east;  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  the  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved? 
What  matter  how  the  north- wind  raved? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 
O  Time  and  Change!   with  hair  as  gray 
As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 
How  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 
Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on ! 
Ah,  brother!   only  I  and  thou 
Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now, — 
The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 
That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 
Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 
The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still; 
Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er, 
Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn, 
We  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees, 
We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees 
And  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn : 
We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 
Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er, 
But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade. 
No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 
No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor ! 
Yet  Love  will  dream,  and  Faith  will  trust, 
(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just,) 
That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 
Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 
The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress  trees ! 
Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 
Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 
Across  the  mournful  marbles  play ! 
Who  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 
The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 
That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 
And  Love  can  never  lose  its  own ! 

—  Whittier. 


131 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE    CHAMBERED    NAUTILUS. 

This  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feigii, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main, — 

The  venturous  bark  that  flings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed, — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed! 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 
Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no  more. 


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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea. 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
That  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 
Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that  sings :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low- vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea! 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

SONG    OF    MARION'S    MEN. 

Our  band  is  few,  both  true  and  tried, 

Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  greenwood, 

Our  tent  the  cypress  tree ; 
We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  the  seaman  knows  the  sea; 
We  know  its  walls  and  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 
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Poems 

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Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  us  near! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear ; 
When,  walking  to  their  tents  on  fire, 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again ; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil : 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pinetop  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 

Well  known  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 
The  band  that  Marion  leads  — 

The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 

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Poems 

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"Pis  life  our  fiery  barbs  to  guide 

Across  the  moonlight  plains; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night- wind 

That  lifts  their  tossing  manes. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp  — 

A  moment  —  and  away 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs; 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

For  ever  from  the  shore. 

—  Bryant. 


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Poems 
.For  Memorizing 


WARREN'S    ADDRESS. 


Stand!  the  ground's  your  own,  iny  braves! 
Will  ye  give  it  up  to  slaves? 
Will  ye  look  for  greener  graves? 

Hope  ye  mercy  still? 
What's  the  mercy  despots  feel? 
Hear  it  in  that  battle  peal ! 
Read  it  on  yon  bristling  steel ! 

Ask  it,  ye  who  will. 

Fear  ye  foes  who  kill  for  hire? 
Will  ye  to  your  homes  retire? 
Look  behind  you!  they're  afire! 

And,  before  you,  see 
Who  have  done  it!     From  the  vale 
On  they  come!  —  and  will  ye  quail? 
Leaden  rain  and  iron  hail 

Let  their  welcome  be ! 

In  the  God  of  battles  trust ! 
Die  we  may, —  and  die  we  must: 
But,  oh!  where  can  dust  to  dust 

Be  consigned  so  well, 
As  where  heaven  its  dews  shall  shed 
On  the  martyred  patriot's  bed, 
And  the  rocks  shall  raise  their  head, 

Of  his  deeds  to  tell? 

—  John  Pierpont. 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 


DAYBREAK. 

A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 

And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me." 

It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 

Ye  mariners,  the  night  is  gone." 

And  hurried  landward  far  away, 

Crying,  "  Awake!  it  is  the  day." 

It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout! 

Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out ! J ' 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 

And  said,  "  O  bird,  awake  and  sing." 

And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer, 

Your  clarion  blow;  the  day  is  near." 

It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 

Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn." 

It  shouted  through  the  belfry  tower, 

Awake,  O  bell!  proclaim  the  hour." 

It  crossed  the  churchyard  with  a  sigh, 

And  said.  "  Not  yet!  in  quiet  lie." 

—  Longfellow. 


13T 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


LIBERTY,    OK    DEATH! 

Mr.  President:  It  is  natural  to  man  to  indulge  in  the 
illusions  of  hope.  We  are  apt  to  shut  our  eyes  against  a  pain- 
ful truth,  and  listen  to  the  song  of  that  siren,  till  she  trans- 
forms us  into  beasts.  Is  this  the  part  of  wise  men,  engaged  in 
a  great  and  arduous  struggle  for  liberty?  Are  we  disposed  to 
be  of  the  number  of  those  who,  haying  eyes,  see  not,  and 
having  ears,  hear  not,  the  things  which  so  nearly  concern 
their  temporal  salvation! 

For  my  part,  whatever  anguish  of  spirit  it  may  cost,  I  am 
willing  to  know  the  whole  truth  —  to  know  the  worst,  and  to 
provide  for  it.  I  have  one  light  by  which  my  feet  are  guided, 
and  that  is  the  lamp  of  experience.  I  know  of  no  way  of 
judging  of  the  future  but  by  the  past;  and,  judging  by  the 
past,  I  wish  to  know  what  there  has  been  in  the  conduct  of 
the  British  ministry  for  the  last  ten  years  to  justify  those 
hopes  with  which  gentlemen  have  been  pleased  to  solace  them- 
selves and  the  House? 

Is  it  that  insidious  smile  with  which  our  petition  has  been 
lately  received?  Trust  it  not,  sir;  it  will  prove  a  snare  to 
your  feet!  Suffer  not  yourselves  to  be  betrayed  with  a  kiss. 
Ask  yourselves  how  this  gracious  reception  of  our  petition 
comports  with  those  warlike  preparations  which  cover  our 
waters  and  darken  our  land.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary 
to  a  work  of  love  and  reconciliation?  Have  we  shown  our- 
selves so  willing  to  be  reconciled  that  force  must  be  called  in 
to  win  back  our  love? 


138 


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For  Memorizing 

Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves,  sir.  These  are  the  implements 
of  war  and  subjugation  —  the  last  argument  to  which  kings 
resort.  I  ask,  sir,  what  means  this  martial  array,  if  its  pur- 
pose be  not  to  force  us  to  submission?  Can  gentlemen  assign 
any  other  possible  motive  for  it?  Has  Great  Britain  any 
enemy  in  this  quarter  of  the  world,  to  call  for  all  this  accum- 
ulation of  navies  and  armies? 

No,  sir,  she  has  none;  they  are  meant  for  us:  they  can  be 
meant  for  no  other.  They  are  sent  over  to  bind  and  rivet 
upon  us  those  chains  which  the  British  ministry  have  been  so 
long  forging.  And  what  have  we  to  oppose  them? 

Shall  we  try  argument?  Sir,  we  have  been  trying  that  for 
the  last  ten  years.  Have  we  anything  new  to  offer  upon  the 
subject?  Nothing.  We  have  held  the  subject  up  in  every 
light  of  which  it  is  capable,  but  it  has  been  all  in  vain.  Shall 
we  resort  to  entreaty  and  humble  supplication?  What  terms 
shall  we  find  which  have  not  been  already  exhausted? 

Let  us  not,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  deceive  ourselves  longer. 
Sir,  we  have  done  everything  that  could  be  done  to  avert  the 
storm  that  is  now  coming  on.  We  have  petitioned;  we  have 
remonstrated;  we  have  supplicated;  we  have  prostrated  our- 
selves before  the  throne,  and  have  implored  its  interposition 
to  arrest  the  tyrannical  hands  of  the  ministry  and  Parliament. 

Our  petitions  have  been  slighted ;  our  remonstrances  have 
produced  additional  violence  and  insult;  our  supplications 
have  been  disregarded;  and  we  have  been  spurned  with  con- 
tempt from  the  foot  of  the  throne !  In  vain,  after  these  things, 
may  we  indulge  the  fond  hope  of  peace  and  reconciliation. 
There  is  no  longer  any  room  for  hope. 

If  we  wish  to  be  free;   if  we   mean   to   preserve  inviolate 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

those  inestimable  privileges  for  which  we  have  been  so  long 
contending;  if  we  mean  not  basely  to  abandon  the  noble  strug- 
gle in  which  we  have  been  so  long  engaged,  and  which  we 
have  pledged  ourselves  never  to  abandon  until  the  glorious 
object  of  our  contest  shall  be  obtained,  we  must  fight!  I  re- 
peat it,  sir:  We  must  fight!  An  appeal  to  arms  and  to  the 
God  of  Hosts  is  all  that  is  left  us ! 

They  tell  us,  sir,  that  we  are  weak  —  unable  to  cope  with 
so  formidable  an  adversary;  but  when  shall  we  be  stronger? 
Will  it  be  the  next  week,  or  the  next  year?  Will  it  be  when 
we  are  totally  disarmed,  and  when  a  British  guard  shall  be 
stationed  in  every  house !  Shall  we  gather  strength  by  irres- 
olution and  inaction?  Shall  we  acquire  the  means  of  effectual 
resistance  by  lying  supinely  on  our  backs,  and  hugging  the 
delusive  phantom  of  hope,  until  our  enemies  shall  have  bound 
us  hand  and  foot"? 

Sir,  we  are  not  weak  if  we  make  a  proper  use  of  those 
means  which  the  God  of  Nature  hath  placed  in  our  power. 
Three  millions  of  people,  armed  in  the  holy  cause  of  liberty, 
and  in  such  a  country  as  that  which  we  possess,  are  in- 
vincible by  any  force  which  any  enemy  can  send  against  us. 

Besides,  sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles  alone:  there  is  a 
just  God  who  presides  over  the  destinies  of  nations,  and  who 
will  raise  up  friends  to -fight  our  battles  for  us.  The  battle  is 
not  to  the  strong  alone:  it  is  to  the  vigilant,  the  active,  the 
brave. 

Besides,  sir,  we  have  no  election.  If  we  were  base  enough 
to  desire  it,  it  is  now  too  late  to  retire  from  the  contest. 
There  is  no  retreat,  but  in  submission  or  slavery!  Our  chains 
are  forged  I  Their  clanking  may  be  heard  on  the  plains  of 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Boston!  The  war  is  inevitable,  and  let  it  come!  I  repeat  it 
sir:  Let  it  come! 

Vlt  is  in  vain,  sir,  to  extenuate  the  matter.  Gentlemen  may 
cry  "  Peace!  peace!  "  but  there  is  no  peace.  The  war  is  act- 
ually begun !  The  next  gale  that  sweeps  from  the  north  will 
bring  to  our  ears  the  clash  of  resounding  arms !  Our  brethren 
are  already  in  the  fields!  Why  stand  we  here  idle? 

What  is  it  that  gentlemen  wish?  What  would  they  have! 
Is  life  so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet,  as  to  be  purchased  at  the 
price  of  chains  and  slavery?  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God!  I 
know  not  what  course  others  may  take,  but,  as  for  me,  give 
me  liberty,  or  give  me  death! 

— Patrick  Henry. 

HYMN    ON    THE    FIGHT    AT    CONCORD. 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood. 

And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept, 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps, 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

i 
On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  the  votive  stone, 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sous  are  gone. 

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Poems 

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Spirit  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

—  R.  W.  Emerson, 


WOODMAN,    SPARE    THAT    TREE. 

Woodman,  spare  that  tree! 

Touch  not  a  single  bough ! 
In  youth  it  sheltered  me, 

And  I'll  protect  it  now. 
'Twas  my  forefather's  hand 

That  placed  it  near  his  cot ; 
There,  woodman,  let  it  stand, 

Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not ! 

That  old  familiar  tree, 

Whose  glory  and  renown 
Are  spread  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  wouldst  thou  hew  it  down? 
Woodman,  forbear  thy  stroke! 

Cut  not  its  earth-bound  ties ; 
Oh,  spare  that  aged  oak, 

Now  towering  to  the  skies ! 


142 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


When  but  an  idle  boy 

I  sought  its  grateful  shade; 
In  all  their  gushing  joy 

Here  too  my  sisters  played. 
My  mother  kissed  me  here; 

My  father  pressed  my  hand  — 
Forgive  this  foolish  tear, 

But  let  that  old  oak  stand! 

My  heart-strings  round  thee  cling, 

Close  as  thy  bark,  old  friend! 
Here  shall  the  wild-bird  sing, 

And  still  thy  branches  bend. 
Old  tree!  the  storm  still  brave! 

And,  woodman,  leave  the  spot; 
While  I've  a  hand  to  save, 
Thy  axe  shall  harm  it  not. 

—  George  P.  Morris. 


ABOU    BEN    ADHEM. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem  (may  his  tribe  increase!) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw,  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room, 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold; 
Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 
And  to  the  presence  in  the  room  he  said, 
'  What  writest  thou? ' '    The  vision  raised  its  head, 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 

And,  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 
Answered,  "  The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 
'  And  is  mine  one?"  said  Abou.    "Nay,  not  so," 
Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 
But  cheerly  still;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  then, 
Write  me  as  one  who  loves  his  fellow- men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 
It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 
And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blest; 
And,  lo!  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 

—  James  Henry  Leigh  Hunt. 


A44 


EIGHTH  GRADE. 


O    CAPTAIN!    MY    CAPTAIN! 

A  Dirge  for  Lincoln. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather' d  every  wrack,  the  prize  we  sought  is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  exulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and  daring; 
But,  O  heart!  heart!  heart! 

O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

WTiere  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!  my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 

Rise  up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung  —  for  you  the  bugle  trills, 

For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon 'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the  shores 

a-crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces  turning; 
Here  Captain!  dear  father! 

This  arm  beneath  your  head! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 


145 


Poems 

or  Memorizing 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  cold  and  still; 
My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor  will, 
The  ship  is  anchor 'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed  and 

done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object  won;  — 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I,  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

—  Walt  Whitman. 


THANATOPSIS. 

To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 

Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 

A  various  language ;  for  his  gayer  hours 

She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 

And  eloquence  of  beauty;   and  she  glides 

Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 

And  gentle  sympathy,  that  steals  away 

Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware.     When  thoughts 

Of  the  last  bitter  hour  come  like  a  blight 

Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkness,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart;  — 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around  — 

146 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Earth  and  her  waters  and  the  depths  of  air  — 

Comes  a  still  voice, —  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 

The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 

In  all  his  course;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again; 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements : 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 

Yet  not  to  thine  eternal  resting  place 
Shalt  thou  retire  alone, —  nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world, —  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth, —  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun;  —  the  vales 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between; 
The  venerable  woods, — rivers  that  move 
In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 
That  make  the  meadows  green;  and,  poured  round  all, 
Old  Ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, — 
Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man!     The  golden  sun, 

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The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 

Of  morning,  traverse  Barca's  desert  sands, 

Or  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods 

Where  rolls  the  Oregon  and  hears  no  sound 

Save  his  own  dashiugs, —  yet  the  dead  are  there! 

And  millions  in  those  solitudes  since  first 

The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 

In  their  last  sleep, —  the  dead  reign  there  alone! 

So  shalt  thou  rest;   and  what  if  thou  withdraw 

In  silence  from  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure!    All  that  breathe 

Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  langh 

When  thou  art  gone,  the  solemn  brood  of  care 

Plod  on,  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 

His  favorite  phantom ;  yet  all  these  shall  leave 

Their  mirth  and  their  employments,  and  shall  come, 

And  make  their  bed  with  thee.     As  the  long  train 

Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he  who  goes 

In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron  and  maid, 

The  speechless  babe,  and  the  gray- headed  man, — 

Shall  one  by  one  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 

By  those  who  in  their  turn  shall  follow  them. 


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So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  conies  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  which  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry- slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

—  Bryant. 

A    MAN'S    A    MAN    FOR    A7    THAT 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a 'that! 
For  a7  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that; 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp; 
The  man's  the  gowdfor  a'  that, 

What  tho'  on  hamely  fare  we  dine, 
Wear  hodden  gray,  and  a'  that; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man's  a  man,  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that, 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a  that 

149 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Ye  see  you  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  arid  a'  that; 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and 'laughs  at  a'  that 

A  king  can  make  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that, 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 
Guid  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that' 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o"  worth, 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may — 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that  — 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It's  comin'  yet  for  a'  that; 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

—  Robert  Burns. 


150 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


TO    A    WATERFOWL. 


Whither,  'midst  falling  dew, 

While  glow  the  heavens  with  the  last  steps  of  day, 
Far,  through  their  rosy  depths,  dost  thou  pursue 
Thy  solitary  way? 

Vainly  the  fowler's  eye 

Might  mark  thy  distant  flight  to  do  thee  wrong, 
As,  darkly  seen  against  the  crimson  sky, 

Thy  figure  floats  along. 

Seek'st  thou  the  plashy  brink 
Of  weedy  lake,  or  marge  of  river  wide, 
Or  where  the  rocking  billows  rise  and  sink 

On  the  chafed  ocean  side? 

There  is  a  Power  whose  care 
Teaches  thy  way  along  that  pathless  coast, 
The  desert  and  illimitable  air, 

Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost. 

All  day  thy  wings  have  fanned, 
At  that  far  height,  the  cold,  thin  atmosphere, 
Yet  stoop  not,  weary,  to  the  welcome  land, 

Though  the  dark  night  is  near. 

And  soon  that  toil  shall  end; 
Soon  shalt  thou  find  a  summer  home,  and  rest, 
And  scream  among  thy  fellows ;  reeds  shall  bend 

Soon  o'er  thy  sheltered  nest. 

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Thou'rt  gone,  the  abyss  of  heaven 
Hath  swallow'd  up  thy  form;  yet,  on  my  heart, 
Deeply  hath  sunk  the  lesson  thou  hast  given, 

And  shall  not  soon  depart. 

He  who,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  boundless  sky  thy  certain  flight, 
In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  lead  my  steps  aright. 

—  Bryant. 

REMEMBERED    MUSIC. 

Thick-rushing,  like  an  ocean  vast 
Of  bisons  the  far  prairie  shaking, 
The  notes  crowd  heavily  and  fast 
As  surfs,  one  plunging  while  the  last 
Draws  seaward  from  its  foamy  breaking. 

Or  in  low  murmurs  they  began, 
Rising  and  rising  momently, 
As  o'er  a  harp  ^olian 
A  fitful  breeze,  until  they  ran 
Up  to  a  sudden  ecstasy. 

And  then,  like  minute  drops  of  rain 

Ringing  in  water  silvery, 
They  lingering  dropped  and  dropped  again, 
Till  it  was  almost  like  a  pain 

To  listen  when  the  next  would  be. 

—  Lowell. 

152 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


OLD    IRONSIDES. 


Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensigu  down! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky : 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle  shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar;  — 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck  —  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below  — 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee ; 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea. 

Oh !  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave; 
Her  thundei-s  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave. 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms  — 

The  lightning  and  the  gale. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 


153 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 

BATTLE  HYMN  OF  THE  REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord; 

He  is  tramping  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are 

stored ; 
He  hath  loosed   the   fateful   lightning   of   his   terrible    swift 

sword ; 

His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch- fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps; 
They  have   builded   him   an    altar   in  the  evening  dews  and 

damps ; 
I  have  read  his    righteous    sentence  by  the  dim  and    flaring 

lamps : 

His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel ; 

'*  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall 

deal; 

Let  the  Hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel; 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment  seat; 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him!   be  jubilant,  my  feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies,  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 
With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me ; 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free. 
While  God  is  marching  on. 

— Julia  Ward  Howe. 
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LIBERTY    AND    UNION. 

I  profess,  sir,  in  iny  career  hitherto,  to  have  kept  steadily  in 
view  the  prosperity  and  honor  of  the  whole  country,  and  the 
preservation  of  our  federal  union.  It  is  to  that  union  that  we 
owe  our  safety  at  home,  and  our  consideration  and  dignity 
abroad.  It  is  to  that  union  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for 
whatever  makes  us  most  proud  of  our  country.  That  union  we 
reached  only  by  the  discipline  of  our  virtues  in  the  severe 
school  of  adversity.  It  had  its  origin  in  the  necessities  of  dis- 
ordered finance,  prostrate  commerce,  and  ruined  credit.  Un- 
der its  benign  influences,  these  great  interests  immediately 
awoke,  as  from  the  dead,  and  sprang  forth  with  newness  of 
life.  Every  year  of  its  duration  has  teemed  with  fresh  proofs 
of  its  utility  and  its  blessings ;  and  although  our  territory  has 
stretched  out  wider  and  wider,  and  our  population  spread  far- 
ther and  farther,  they  have  not  outrun  its  protection  or  its 
benefits.  It  has  been  to  us  all  a  copious  fountain  of  national, 
social,  and  personal  happiness. 

I  have  not  allowed  myself,  sir,  to  look  beyond  the  union,  to 
see  what  might  be  hidden  in  the  dark  recess  behind.  I  have 
not  coolly  weighed  the  chances  of  preserving  liberty,  when  the 
bonds  that  unite  us  together  shall  be  broken  asunder.  I  have 
not  accustomed  myself  to  hang  over  the  precipice  of  disunion, 
to  see  whether,  with  my  short  sight,  I  can  fathom  the  depth 
of  the  abyss  below;  nor  could  I  regard  him  as  a  safe  coun- 
sellor in  the  affairs  of  this  government,  whose  thoughts  should 
be  mainly  bent  on  considering,  not  how  the  union  should  be 


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preserved,  but  how  tolerable  might  be   the  condition  of  the 
people,  when  it  shall  be  broken  up  and  destroyed. 

While  the  union  lasts,  we  have  high,  exciting,  gratifying 
prospects  spread  out  before  us,  for  us  and  our  children.  Be- 
yond that,  I  seek  not  to  penetrate  the  veil.  God  grant  that  in 
my  day,  at  least,  that  curtain  may  not  rise.  God  grant  that 
on  my  vision  never  may  be  opened  what  lies  behind.  When 
my  eyes  shall  be  turned  to  behold  for  the  last  time  the  sun  in 
heaven,  may  I  not  see  him  shining  on  the  broken  and  dishon- 
ored fragments  of  a  once  glorious  union;  on  states  dissevered, 
discordant,  belligerent;  on  a  land  rent  with  civil  feuds,  or 
drenched,  it  may  be,  in  fraternal  blood!  Let  their  last  feeble 
and  lingering  glance,  rather,  behold  the  gorgeous  ensign  of 
the  republic,  now  known  and  honored  throughout  the  earth, 
still  full  high  advanced,  its  arms  and  trophies  streaming  in 
their  original  luster;  not  a  stripe  erased  or  polluted,  not  a 
single  star  obscured, — bearing  for  its  motto,  no  such  misera- 
able  interrogatory  as,  What  is  all  this  worth?  nor  those  other 
words  of  delusion  and  folly:  Liberty  first,  and  union  after- 
wards; but  every  where,  spread  all  over  in  characters  of  living 
light,  blazing  on  all  its  ample  folds,  as  they  float  over  the  sea 
and  over  the  land,  and  in  every  wind  under  the  whole  heavens, 
that  other  sentiment,  dear  to  every  true  American  heart, — 
LIBERTY  AND  UNION,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable! 

— Daniel  Webster, 


156 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


THE    SHELL. 


See  what  a  lovely  shell, 
Small  and  pure  as  a  pearl, 
Lying  close  to  my  foot, 
Frail,  but  a  work  divine, 
Made  so  f airily  well 
With  delicate  spire  and  whorl, 
How  exquisitely  minute, 
A  miracle  of  design ! 

What  is  it'?  a  learned  man 
Could  give  it  a  clumsy  name. 
Let  him  name  it  who  can, 
The  beauty  would  be  the  same. 

The  tiny  cell  is  forlorn, 
Void  of  the  little  living  will 
That  made  it  stir  on  the  shore. 
Did  he  stand  at  the  diamond  door 
Of  his  house  in  a  rainbow  frill? 
Did  he  push,  when  he  was  uncurPd 
A  golden  foot  or  a  fairy  horn 
'Thro  his  dim  water  world! 

Slight,  to  be  crushed  with  a  tap 
Of  my  finger-nail  on  the  sand, 
Small,  but  a  work  divine, 
Frail,  but  of  force  to  withstand, 

157 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Year  upon  year,  the  shock 
Of  cataract  seas  that  snap 
The  three  decker's  oaken  spine 
Athwart  the  ledges  of  rock 
Here  on  the  Breton  strand! 

— Tennyson. 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send: 

Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calm'd  me, 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end! 

Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you ! ' ' 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer: 
Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are?    Live  as  they. 

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Poems 

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'  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon- silvered  roll; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 

Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

0  air-born  voice!  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear: 
Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know  that  he, 
Who  finds  himself,  loses  his  misery ! ' ' 

—  Matthew  Arnold. 

SUN    AND    SHADOW. 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

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For  Memorizing 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,-— 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar ; 
How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  who  gaze  f  rom  the  shore ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast ,  like  a  wind- wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim- vaulted  caves 

Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade ; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  the  shadows  grow  dark, 

We'll  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore ! 

— Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


GETTYSBURG    ADDRESS. 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth 
upon  this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and 
dedicated  to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal. 
Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that 
nation,  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that  war.  We 
are  met  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  it  as  the  final  resting-place  for 

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those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  the  nation  might  live.  It 
is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this.  But 
in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot  dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate, 
we  cannot  hallow  this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and 
dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our 
power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little  note  nor  long 
remember  what  we  say  here ;  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they 
did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated  here 
to  the  unfinished  work  which  they  have  thus  far  so  nobly  car- 
ried on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to  the  great 
task  remaining  before  us;  that  from  these  honored  dead  we 
take  increased  devotion  to  the  cause  for  which  they  here  gave 
the  last,  full  measure  of  devotion;  that  we  here  highly  resolve 
that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain ;  that  the  nation 
shall,  under  God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom;  and  that  gov- 
ernment of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the  people,  shall 
not  perish  from  the  earth ! 

—  Abraham  Lincoln. 


THE    WAY    TO    HEAVEN. 

Heaven  is  not  gained  at  a  single  bound; 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

I  count  this  thing  to  be  grandly  true, 

That  a  noble  deed  is  a  step  toward  God, — 
Lifting  the  soul  from  the  common  sod 

To  a  purer  air  and  a  broader  view. 

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We  rise  by  things  that  are  'neath  our  feet; 

By  what  we  have  mastered  of  good  and  gain ; 

By  the  pride  deposed  and  the  passion  slain, 
And  the  vanquished  ills  that  we  hourly  meet. 

We  hope,  we  aspire,  we  resolve,  we  trust, 
When  the  morning  calls  us  to  life  and  light, 
But  our  hearts  grow  weary,  and,  ere  the  night, 

Our  lives  are  trailing  the  sordid  dust. 

We  hope,  we  resolve,  we  aspire,  we  pray, 
And  we  think  that  we  mount  the  air  on  wings 
Beyond  the  recall  of  sensual  thing, 

While  our  feet  still  cling  to  the  heavy  clay. 

Wings  for  the  angels,  but  feet  for  men! 

We  may  borrow  the  wings  to  find  the  way — 
We  may  hope,  and  resolve,  and  aspire,  and  pray, 

But  our  feet  must  rise,  or  we  fall  again. 

Only  in  dreams  is  a  ladder  thrown 

From  the  weary  earth  to  the  sapphire  walls; 
But  the  dream  departs,  and  the  vision  falls, 

And  the  sleeper  wakes  on  his  pillow  of  stone. 

Heaven  is  not  reached  at  a  single  bound : 
But  we  build  the  ladder  by  which  we  rise 
From  the  lowly  earth  to  the  vaulted  skies, 

And  we  mount  to  its  summit  round  by  round. 

—  J.  G.  Holland. 


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Poems 

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ELEGY. 

Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds : 

Save  from  that  yonder  ivy- mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew  tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezj  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  shallow  trittering  from  the  straw- built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care : 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

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Poems 

For  Memorizing 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke ; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke! 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 

Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour:  — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
•      If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 

Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death? 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre : 


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But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress 'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark,  unfathorn'd  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 

Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  list'ning  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 

To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes. 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  glowing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind ; 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame . 


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For  Memorizing 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn 'd  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  names,  their  years,  spelled  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'erresign'd, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  ling'ring  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  the  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 


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For  Memorizing 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  step  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn ; 

There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

"  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove ; 
Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross 'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  '  custom  'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 
Another  came,  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

'  The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchyard  path  we  saw  him  borne ; 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  can'st  read)  the  lay 
'Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE   EPITAPH. 
Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth 

A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 
Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth, 

And  Melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 


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Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send : 
He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had, —  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven  —  'twas  all  he  wish'd —  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailities  from  their  dread  abode 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose), 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

— Thomas  Gray, 


TRUE    REST. 

No ;   rest  is  not  quitting 

This  busy  career; 
Rest  is  the  fitting 

Of  self  to  its  sphere. 

It  is  the  brook's  motion, 
All  clear  without  strife ; 

'Tis  fleeting  to  ocean, 
Beyond  this  brief  life. 

'Tis  loving  and  serving 

The  highest  and  best; 
'Tis  onward,  unswerving, — 

And  this  is  true  rest. 

— Goethe 

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FLOWER    IN    THE    CRANNIED    WALL. 

Flower  in  the  crannied  wall, 

I  pluck  you  out  of  the  crannies, 

I  hold  you  here,  root  and  all,  in  my  hand, 

Little  flower  —  but  if  I  could  understand 

What  you  are,  root  and  all,  and  all  in  all, 

I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is. 

— Tennyson. 

THE    PRESENT    CRISIS. 

(Extract.) 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad  earth's 

aching  breast, 

Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east  to  west, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul  within  him 

climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem  of  Time. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  conies  the  moment  to  decide, 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil  side; 
Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each  the  bloom 

or  blight, 
Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep  upon  the 

right, 
And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and  that 

light. 

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Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on  whose  part  thou  shalt 

stand, 
Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shakes  the  dust  against 

our  land? 

Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  'tis  Truth  alone  is  strong, 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see  around  her  throng 

Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  shield  her  from  all  wrong. 

********* 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we  share  her  wretched 

crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  'tis  prosperous  to 

be  just; 
Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward  stands 

aside. 

Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified, 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they  had  denied. 

'Tis  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 
Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  father's  graves, 
Worshipers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  light  a  crime ;  — 
Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered  by  men  be- 
hind their  time? 

Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future  that  make  the  Ply- 
mouth Rock  sublime? 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties ;  Time  makes  ancient  good  un- 
couth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep  abreast 
of  Truth; 

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Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires!  we  ourselves  must  Pil- 
grims be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the  desperate 
winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood-rusted 
key. 

— Lowell. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do! " 

He  said,  and  so  went  shriven  to  his  fate. 
Unknowing  went,  that  generous  heart  and  true. 

Even  while  he  spoke  the  slayer  lay  in  wait, 

And  when  the  morning  opened  Heaven's  gate 
There  passed  the  whitest  soul  a  nation  knew. 

Henceforth  all  thoughts  of  pardon  are  too  late ; 
They,  in  whose  cause  that  arm  its  weapon  drew, 

Have  murdered  Mercy.     Now  alone  shall  stand 
Blind  Justice,  with  the  sword  unsheathed  she  wore, 

Hark,  from  the  eastern  to  the  western  strand, 
The  swelling  thunder  of  the  people's  roar: 

What  words  they  murmur, —  Fetter  not  her  hand! 
So  let  it  smite,  such  deeds  shall  be  no  more! 

— E.  C.  Stedman. 

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Poems 

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THE    LADDER    OF    ST.    AUGUSTINE. 

Saint  Augustine !  well  hast  thou  said, 
That  of  our  vices  we  can  frame 

A  ladder,  if  we  will  but  tread 
Beneath  our  feet  each  deed  of  shame. 

All  common  things,  each  day's  events, 
That  with  the  hour  begin  and  end, 

Our  pleasures  and  our  discontents, 
Are  rounds  by  which  we  may  ascend. 

The  low  desire,  the  base  design, 
That  makes  another's  virtues  less; 

The  revel  of  the  ruddy  wine, 
And  all  occasions  of  excess ; 

The  longing  for  ignoble  things; 

The  strife  for  triumph  more  than  truth : 
The  hardening  of  the  heart,  that  brings 

Irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth ; 

All  thoughts  of  ill;  all  evil  deeds, 

That  have  their  root  in  thoughts  of  ill; 

Whatever  hinders  or  impedes 
The  action  of  the  nobler  will ;  — 


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All  these  must  first  be  trampled  down 
Beneath  our  feet,  if  we  should  gain 

In  the  bright  fields  of  fair  renown 
The  right  of  eminent  domain. 

We  have  not  wings,  we  cannot  soar; 

But  we  have  feet  to  scale  and  climb 
By  slow  degrees,  by  more  and  more, 

The  cloudy  summits  of  our  time. 

The  mighty  pyramids  of  stone 

That  wedge-like  cleave  the  desert  airs, 

When  nearer  seen,  and  better  known, 
Are  but  gigantic  nights  of  stairs. 

The  distant  mountains,  that  uprear 
Their  solid  bastions  to  the  skies, 

Are  crossed  by  pathways,  that  appear 
As  we  to  higher  levels  rise. 

The  heights  by  great  men  reached  and  kept 
Were  not  attained  by  sudden  flight, 

But  they,  while  their  companions  slept, 
Were  toiling  upward  in  the  night. 

Standing  on  what  too  long  we  bore 

With  shoulders  bent  and  downcast  eyes, 

We  may  discern  —  unseen  before  — 
A  path  to  higher  destinies. 


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Nor  deem  the  irrevocable  Past 

As  wholly  wasted,  wholly  vain, 
If,  rising  on  its  wrecks,  at  last 

To  something  nobler  we  attain. 

—Longfellow. 


CONTENTMENT. 

I  do  not  own  an  inch  of  land, 

But  all  I  see  is  mine  — 
The  orchard  and  the  mowing-fields, 

The  lawns  and  gardens  fine. 
The  winds  my  tax-collectors  are, 

They  bring  me  tithes  divine  — 
Wild  scents  and  subtle  essences, 

A  tribute  rare  and  free; 
And  more  magnificent  than  all, 

-My  window  keeps  for  me 
A  glimpse  of  blue  immensity  — 

A  little  strip  of  sea. 

Richer  am  I  than  he  who  owns 
Great  fleets  and  argosies; 

I  have  a  share  in  every  ship, 
Won  by  the  inland  breeze, 

To  loiter  on  yon  airy  road 
Above  the  apple  trees. 

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I  freight  them  all  with  untold  dreams, 
Each  bears  my  own  picked  crew; 

And  nobler  cargoes  watt  for  them 
Than  India  ever  knew — 

My  ships  that  sail  into  the  east 
Across  that  outlet  blue. 

— Lucy  Larcom. 

RECESSIONAL. 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old  — 

Lord  of  our  far-flung  battle  line  — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 

Dominion  over  palm  and  pine  — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies  — 

The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart  — 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  Sacrifice, 

An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away  — 

On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire  — 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 

Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre ! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget  —  lest  we  forget ! 

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If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe  — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Gentiles  use, 

Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  Law  — 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard  — 
All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 

And  guarding  calls  not  Thee  to  guard. 
For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  people,  Lord! 

Amen. 

— Rudyard  Kipling. 


176 


SOME  OLD  FAVORITES. 

ROBERT    OF    LINCOLN. 

Merrily  swinging  on  briar  and  weed, 
Near  to  the  nest  of  his  little  dame, 
Over  the  mountain- side  or  mead, 
Robert  of  Lincoln  is  telling  his  name. 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Snug  and  safe  is  this  nest  of  ours, 
Hidden  among  the  summer  flowers. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  is  gayly  dressed, 

Wearing  a  bright,  black  wedding-coat; 
White  are  his  shoulders,  and  white  his  crest, 
Hear  him  call  in  his  merry  note, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Look  what  a  nice,  new  coat  is  mine; 
Sure  there  was  never  a  bird  so  fine. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln's  Quaker  wife, 

Pretty  and  quiet,  with  plain  brown  wings, 

Passing  at  home  a  patient  life, 

Broods  in  the  grass  while  her  husband  sings, 

177 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Bob-'o-liuk,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spaiik,  spink, 
Brood,  kind  creature,  you  need  not  fear 
Thieves  and  robbers  while  I  am  here. 
Chee,  chee,  ehee. 

Modest  and  shy  as  a  nun  is  she ; 

One  weak  chirp  is  her  only  note ; 
Braggart,  and  prince  of  braggarts  is  he, 
Pouring  boasts  from  his  little  throat, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Never  was  I  afraid  of  man, 
Catch  me,  cowardly  knaves,  if  you  can. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Six  white  eggs  on  a  bed  of  hay, 

Flecked  with  purple,  a  pretty  sight: 
There  as  the  mother  sits  all  day, 
Robert  is  singing  with  all  his  might, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Nice,  good  wife  that  never  goes  out, 
Keeping  house  while  I  frolic  about. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Soon  as  the  little  ones  chip  the  shell, 
Six  wide  mouths  are  open  for  food; 

Robert  of  Lincoln  bestirs  him  well, 
Gathering  seeds  for  the  hungry  brood : 

178 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 

Spink,  spank,  spink, 
This  new  life  is  likely  to  be 
Hard  for  a  gay  young  fellow  like  me. 

Ghee,  chee,  ehee. 

Robert  of  Lincoln  at  length  is  made 

Sober  with  work,  and  silent  with  care, 
Off  is  his  holiday  garment  laid, 
Half  forgotten  that  merry  air, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
Nobody  knows  but  my  mate  and  I, 
Where  our  nest  and  our  nestlings  lie. 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

Summer  wanes ;   the  children  are  grown ; 

Fun  and  frolic  no  more  he  knows, 
Robert  of  Lincoln's  a  hum-drum  drone; 
Off  he  flies,  and  we  sing  as  he  goes, 
Bob-o'-link,  bob-o'-link, 
Spink,  spank,  spink, 
When  you  can  pipe  that  merry  old  strain, 
Robert  of  Lincoln,  come  back  again, 
Chee,  chee,  chee. 

—  Bryant. 


179 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


CASABIANCA. 


The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
Whence  all  but  him  had  fled; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck, 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on  —  he  would  not  go, 

Without  his  father's  word; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud  —  ' '  Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done?" 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay, 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

Speak,  father!"  once  again  he  cried, 
"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone? " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 
And  fast  the  flames  roll'd  on. 


180 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death, 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father!   must  I  stay?" 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  away. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound  — 

The  boy  —  Oh,  where  was  he? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around, 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea! 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part  — 
But  the  noblest  thing  which  perished  there, 

Was  that  young,  faithful  heart. 

—  Mrs.  Hemans. 


181 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


WHAT    I    LIVE    FOR. 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me, 

Whose  hearts  are  kind  and  time ; 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 

And  awaits  my  spirit,  too; 
For  all  human  ties  that  bind  me, 
For  the  task  my  God  assigned  me, 
For  the  bright  hopes  left  behind  me, 
And  the  good  that  I  can  do. 

I  live  to  learn  their  story, 
Who  suffered  for  my  sake ; 

To  emulate  their  glory, 
And  follow  in  their  wake ; 

Bards,  patriots,  martyrs,  sages, 

The  noble  of  all  ages, 

Whose  deeds  crown  History's  pages, 
And  Time's  great  volume  make, 

I  live  to  hail  that  season, 

By  gifted  minds  foretold, 
When  man  shall  live  by  reason, 

And  not  alone  by  gold; 
When  man  to  man  united, 
And  every  wrong  thing  righted, 
The  whole  world  shall  be  lighted 

As  Eden  was  of  old. 

182 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


I  live  for  those  who  love  me, 

For  those  who  know  me  true; 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 

And  awaits  my  spirit,  too; 
For  the  cause  that  needs  assistance, 
For  the  wrongs  that  need  resistance, 
For  the  future  in  the  distance, 

And  the  good  that  I  can  do. 

—  Author  not  Known. 


THE    BURIAL    OF    MOSES. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  laud  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave; 
But  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  tramping, 

Or  saw  the,  train  go  forth ; 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  the  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun, — 

183 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves. — 
So,  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Lo!  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed,  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  the  funeral  car; 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 

With  costly  marble  dressed, 
In  the  greater  minster  transept 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 


184 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


This  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced,  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor? 

The  hill- side  for  his  pall, 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall; 
And  the  dark  rock  pines,  like  tossing  plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave ; 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave, — 

In  that  deep  grave,  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again, —  O  wondrous  thought! 

Before  the  judgment  day; 
And  stand,  with  gloiy  wrapped  around, 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life, 

With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 


185 


Paems 

For  Memorizing 


O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land! 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill! 
Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, — 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 

—  Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander. 


SHERIDAN'S    RIDE. 

Up  from  the  South,  at  break  of  day, 

Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 

The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 

Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 

The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 

Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

186 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good,  broad  highway  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight. 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed. 

Hills  rose  and  fell;   but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  south, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed,  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind; 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo!  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 


187 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops; 
What  was  done?  what  to  do?  a  glance  told  him  both. 
Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the  wave  of  retreat  check' d  its  course  there,  because 
The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray; 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 
"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day." 

Hurrah !  hurrah  for  Sheridan ! 
Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 
And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 
Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 
The  American  soldier's  Temple  of  Fame, 
There  with  the  glorious  general's  name 
Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright: 
"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 
By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 
From  Winchester  —  twenty  miles  away ! ' ' 

—  Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


188 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  sis  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 

Charge  for  the  guns ! ' '  he  said. 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Forward,  the  Light  Brigade!" 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered: 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die, 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  Six  Hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well; 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

189 


Poems 

For  Memorizing 


Flashed  all  their  sabers  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  in  air, 
Sab'ring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered: 
Plunged  in  the  battery  smoke 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke; 

Cassock  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  saber  stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not  — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred!           — Tennyson. 
190 


Thoughts  for   Memorizing. 

ACTION. 

Of  every  noble  action  the  intent 

Is  to  give  worth  reward,  vice  punishment. 

—  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 

Think  that  day  lost  whose  low  descending  sun 
Views  from  thy  hand  no  noble  action  done. 

—  Selected. 

What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 
But  know  not  what's  resisted. 

— Burns. 

Our  grand  business  undoubtedly  is,  not  to  see  what  lies  dimly  at  a  dis- 
tance, but  to  do  what  lies  clearly  at  hand.  —  Carlyle. 

It  is  better  to  wear  out  than  to  rust  out. — Bishop  Cumberland.^/ 

A 

The  manly  part  is  to  do  with  might  and  main  what  you  can  do. —  Em- 
erson. 

Let  us  then  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate, 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

—  Longf  e  llo  w .     }C 

Our  acts,  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 

—  John  Fletcher. 

Only  the  actions  of  the  just 

Smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

—  Shirly. 

We  must  not  stint  our  necessary  actions  in  the  fear  to  cope  malicious 
censurers. —  Shakespeare. 

191 


Thoughts 
For  Memorizing 

Heaven  ne'er  helps  the  man  \rfco  will  not  act.— Sophocles. 

I  have  always  thought  the  actions  of  men  the  best  interpreters  of  their 
thoughts . — Locke . 

Every  man  feels  instinctively  that  all  the  beautiful  sentiments  in  the 
world  weigh  less  than  a  single  lovely  action. — Lowell. 

What  I  have  done  was  not  for  praise  of  men ; 

Then  let  me  not  be  moved  if  now  and  then 

My  actions,  thoughts  expressed  by  tongue  or  pen, 

Some  one  offend;  oh  let  me  never  fear 

If  only  right  and  just  I  in  G-od's  eyes  appear. 

—  W.  J.  Meredith. 

The  thing  that  chiefly  concerns  a  man  is  not  whether  he  succeed  or  fail, 
but  that  he  do  his  whole  duty  according  to  the  lights  vouchsafed  him  until 
he  die.— Ian  McLaren.  (Adapted). 

BOOKS. 

Laws  die,  books  never.— Lytton. 

Books  are  embalmed  minds. —  Bovee. 

Books  —  Lighthouses  built  on  the  sea  of  time. —  Whipple. 

There  is  no  past  so  long  as  books  live. —  Lytton. 

Hark,  the  world  so  loud  and  they,  the  movers  of  the  world,  so  still. 

—  Lytton. 

A  taste  for  books  is  the  pleasure  and  glory  of  my  life.     I  would  not  ex 
change  it  for  the  glory  of  the  Indies. —  Gibbon. 

Books  should  to  one  of  these  four  ends  conduce, 
For  wisdom,  piety,  delight,  or  use. 

—  Denham. 

That  is  a  good  book  that  is  opened  with  expectation  and  closed  with 
profit. —  Alcott. 

192 


Thougms 

For  Memorizing 

Books  are  the  best  things,  well  used:  abused,  among  the  worst. 

—  Emerson. 

If  time  is  precious,  no  book  that  will  not  improve  by  repeated  readings 
deserves  to  be  read  at  all.  —  Carlyle. 

Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to  be 
chewed  and  digested.  —  Bacon. 

God  be  thanked  for  books.     They  are  the  voices  of  the  distant  and  the 
dead  and  make  us  heirs  of  the  spiritual  life  of  past  ages. —  Channing. 

In  proportion  as  society  refines,  new  books  must  ever  become  more 
necessary. —  Goldsmith. 

BRAVERY. 

'Tis  more  brave  to  live  than  to  die. —  Meredith. 

None  but  the  brave  deserve  the  fair. —  Dryden. 

A  brave  soul  is  a  thing  which  all  things  serve.—  Alex.  Smith, 

A  man  of  courage  is  also  full  of  faith.— Cicero. 

There  is  one  thing  of  which  I  am  afraid,  and  that  is  fear. —  Montaigne. 

Cowards  die  many  times  before  their  death  ; 

The  valiant  never  taste  of  death  but  once. 

—  Shakespeare. 

Fear  makes  men  look  aside  and  so  their  footing  miss. —  Dryden. 
The  brave  man  seeks  not  popular  applause. —  Dryden. 

He  is  not  worthy  of  the  honeycomb  that  shuns  the  hive  because  the  bees 
have  stings. —  Shakespeare. 

True  bravery  is  shown  by  performing  without  witness  what  one  might 
be  capable  of  doing  before  all  the  world. —  La  Rochefoucauld. 

Courage— an  independent  spark  from  Heaven's  bright  throne, 
By  which  the  soul  stands  raised  triumphant,  high,  alone. 

— Farquhar. 

193 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 


Cowards  are  cruel,  but  the  brave, 
Love  mercy,  and  delight  to  save. 

—  Gay. 


CHARACTER, 

Both  man  and  womankind  belie  their  nature  when  they  are  not  kind. — 
Bailey. 

No,  when  the  fight  begins  within  himself 
A  man's  worth  something. 

—  Browning. 

Clever  men  are  good,  but  they  are  not  the  best. —  Carlyle. 
Every  one  is  the  son  of  his  own  works. —  Cervantes. 

Character  is  higher  than  intellect.  A  great  soul  will  be  strong  to  live, 
as  well  as  to  think. —  Emerson. 

Human  improvement  is  from  within  outward. —  Froude. 

Whatever  comes  from  the  brain  carries  the  hue  of  the  place  it  came 
from,  aud  whatever  comes  from  the  heart  carries  the  heat  and  color  of  its 
birthplace. —  O.  W.  Holmes. 

He  is  truly  great  that  is  little  in  himself,  and  that  maketh  no  account  of 
any  height  of  honors. —  Thomas  A.  Kempis. 

In  this  world  a  man  must  either  be  anvil  or  hammer. —  Longfellow. 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the  soul. — Pope. 

It  is  of  the  utmost  importance  that  a  nation  should  have  a  correct 
standard  by  which  to  weigh  the  character  of  its  rulers. —  Lord  Eussell. 

Charity  and  personal  force  are  the  only  two  investments  worth  any- 
thing.—  Walt  Whitman. 

The  man  that  makes  a  character  makes  foes. —  Young. 


194 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 


COURAGE. 


Courage,  the  highest  gift  that  scorns  to  bend 
To  mean  devices  for  a  sordid  end. 

—  Farquhar. 

And  fearless  minds  climb  soonest  unto  crowns. —  Shakespeare. 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place, 
And  we'll  not  fail. 

—  Shakespeare. 

Courage  is,  on  all  hands,  considered  as  an  essential  of  high  character. — 
Proude. 

EDUCATION. 

Ignorance  never  settles  questions. — Disraeli. 

A  learned  man  is  a  tank;  a  wise  man  is  a  spring. — W.  E.  Alger. 

Education  makes  one  an  articulate  member  of  the  higher  whole. — Dr. 
Wm.  T.  Harris. 

I  have  a  firm  belief  that  the  rock  of  our  safety  as  a  nation  lies  in  the 
proper  education  of  our  population. —  Benjamin  Harrison. 

Every  man  must  educate  himself.     His  books  and  teacher  are  but  helps; 
the  work  is  his. —  Webster. 

If  a  man  empties  his  purse  into  his   head,  no  man  can  take  it  away 
from  him. — Franklin. 

Education  is  the  only  interest  worthy  the  deep  controlling  anxiety  of 
the  thoughtful  man. —  Wendell  Phillips. 

Those  who  think  must  govern  those  who  toil. —  Goldsmith. 

Learning  by  study  must  be  won, 
'Twas  ne'er  entailed  from  sire  to  son. 

—  Gay. 

Education  commences  at   the  mother's  knee,  and    every  word  spoken 

195 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

within  the  hearing  of  little  children  tends  toward  the  formation  of  char- 
acter.—  Ballou. 

Education  is  to  know  for  the  sake  of  living,  not  to  live  for  the  sake  of 
knowing. —  Kate  Douglass  Wiggin. 

Education  begins  the  gentlemen,  but  reading,  good  company,  and  re- 
flection must  finish  him. —  Locke. 

Eight  education  is  such  a  preparation  of  the  individual  in  physical, 
intellectual,  and  moral  capacities,  as  will  enable  him  to  secure  the  high- 
est enjoyment  from  their  use,  here  and  hereafter. — Roark. 

A  boy  is  better  unborn  than  untaught. —  Gascoigue. 

'Tis  education  forms  the  common  mind; 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree's  inclined. 

—  Pope. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

A  true  friend  is  forever  a  friend. — Geo.  McDonald. 

A  generous  friendship  no  cold  medium  knows. — Homer. 

Love  all,  trust  few,  do  wrong  to  none. —  Shakespeare. 

A  friend  is  a  person  with  whom  I  may  be  sincere. —  Emerson. 

To  God,  thy  country,  and  thy  friend  be  true. —  Vaughan. 

To  suspect  a  friend  is  worse  than  to  be  deceived  by  him. — La  Roche- 
foucauld. 

A  true  test  of  friendship  —  to  sit  or  walk  with  a  friend  for  an  hour  in 
perfect  silence  without  wearying  of  one  another's  company, — Mrs.  Mu- 
lock-Craik. 

Well-chosen  friendshis,  the  most  noble 
Of  virtues,  all  our  joys  makes  double, 
And  into  halves  divides  our  troul.ii-s. 

— Sir  J.  Denham. 

196 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

The  condition  which  high  friendship  demands  is  ability  to  do  without 
it.— Emerson. 

Friendship  above  all  ties  does  bind  the  heart, 
And  faith  in  friendship  is  the  noblest  part. 

—  Shakespeare. 

We  can  never  replace  a  friend.  When  a  man  is  fortunate  enough  to 
have  several,  he  finds  they  are  all  different.  No  one  has  a  double  in 
friendship. —  Schiller. 

The  friends  thou  hast  and  their  adoption  tried, — 
Grapple  them  to  thy  side  with  hooks  of  steel 

—  Shakespeare. 

A  friend  is  gold:  if  true  he'll  never  leave  thee; 
Yet  both,  without  a  touchstone,  may  deceive  thee. 

—  Thos.  Randolph. 

Friendship  has  a  power 

To  soothe  affliction  in  her  darkest  hour. 

—  Henry  Kirke  White. 


HABITS. 

Habit  is  ten  times  nature. —  Wellington. 

Habit  is  the  deepest  law  of  human  nature.  —  Carlyle. 

We  first  make  our  habits,  then  our  habits  make  us. —  Dryden. 

The  habits  of  time  are  the  soul's  dress  for  eternity. — Cheever. 

Men  are  but  children  of  a  larger  growth.  —  Dryden. 

How  use  doth  breed  a  habit  in  a  man! — Shakespeare. 

Habit  is  a  cable ;  we  weave  a  thread  of  it  every  day  and  at  last  we  can- 
not break  it. —  Horace  Mann. 

197 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

111  habits  gather  by  unseen  degrees ; 

As  brooks  make  rivers,  rivers  run  to  seas. 

—  Dryden. 

The  chains  of  habit  are  generally  too  small  to  be  felt  until  they  are  too 
strong  to  be  broken.  —  Johnson. 

Bad  habits  are  as  infectious  by  example  as  the  plague  itself  by  con- 
tact.—  Fielding. 

Sow  an  act  and  you  reap  a  habit;  sow  a  habit  and  you  reapachanvcr*  ,  ; 
BOW  a  character  and  you  reap  a  destiny.—  Boardman. 

We  sleep,  but  the  loom  of  life  never  stops ;  and  the  pattern  which  was 
weaving  when  the  sun  went  down  is  weaving  when  it  comes  up  tomorrow. 
—  Beecher. 

Habits,  though  in  their  commencement  like  the  filmy  line  of  the 
spider,  trembling  at  every  breeze,  may  in  the  end  prove  as  links  of  tem- 
pered steel,  binding  a  deathless  being  to  eternal  felicity  or  eternal  woe. — 
Mrs.  Sigourney. 


HONESTY 

Boys,  keep  your  record  clean. —  John  B.  Gough. 
An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  Grod. —  Pope. 
Dare  to  be  true;  nothing  can  need  a  lie.  —  Herbert. 
Falsehood  is  cowardice;  truth  is  courage.— Ballou. 
Truth  is  truth  whether  the  individual  man  believes  it  or  not. —  Moody. 
The  first  and  worst  of  all  frauds  is  to  cheat  oneself .—  Bailey. 
Nothing  is  at  last  sacred  but  the  integrity  of  our  own  minds. —  Emerson. 
You  measure  every  man's  honesty  by  your  own. —  Anon. 

198 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

An  honest  man's  word  is  as  good  as  his  bond. —  Cervantes. 

There  is  only  one  failure  in  life  possible,  and  that  is  not  to  be  true  to 
the  best  one  knows. —  Farrar. 

Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave  when  first  we  practice  to  deceive. — 
Scott. 

This  above  all  —  to  thine  own  self  be  true ; 
And  it  shall  follow  as  the  night  the  day, 
Thou  canst  not  then  be  false  to  any  man. 

—  Shakespeare. 

Truth  crushed  to  earth  shall  rise  again ; 
Th'  eternal  years  of  God  are  hers ; 
But  error,  wounded,  writhes  in  pain 
And  dies  among  her  worshipers. 

—  Bryant. 


KINDNESS, 

Kindness  has  resistless  charms. —  Rochester. 

With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all. —  Lincoln. 

It  is  true  that  he  who  does  nothing  for  others,  does  nothing  for  himself. 

Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets,  and  simple  faith  than  Norman 
blood. —  Tennyson. 

How  far  that  little  candle  throws  its  beams, — 
So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a  naughty  world. 

—  Shakespeare. 

Kindness  —  a  language  which  the  dumb  can  speak  and  the  deaf  can 
understand. —  Bovee.  \^ 

That  best  portion  of  a  good  man's  life, 

His  little  nameless,  unremembered  acts  of  kindness  and  of  love. 

—  Wordsworth. 

199 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

Count  that  day  lost  whose  low  descending  sun, 
Views  from  thy  hand  no  worthy  action  done. 

—  Anon. 

There's  nothing  so  kingly  as  kindness, 
And  nothing  so  royal  as  truth. 

—  Anon. 

Be  good,  my  child,  and  let  who  will  be  clever; 

Do  noble  deeds,  not  dream  them,  all  day  long; 
And  so  make  life,  death,  and  that  vast  forever, 

One  grand,  sweet  song. 

—  Kingsley. 

In  simple  manners  all  the  secret  lies 

Be  kind  and  virtuous,  you'll  be  blest  and  wise. 

—  Young. 

Life  is  not  so  short  but  that  there's  always  time  enough  for  courtesy. 
Emerson. 

Oh,  there  are  looks  and  tones  that  dart 
An  instant  sunshine  through  the  heart ; 
As  if  the  soul  that  minute  caught 
Some  treasure  it  through  life  had  sought. 

—  Moore. 

ABOUT    LINCOLN. 

Our  Country 's^  Martyr. 
He  lives  in  our  memories. 
Though  dead,  he  yet  speaketh. 
Freedom's  noblest  sacrifice. 
We  loved  him  much,  but  now  we  love  him  more. 
Faithful  to  right,  a  martyr  to  justice. 

200 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

He  saved  our  country  and  freed  a  race. 

With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all. 

We  honor  him  dead,  who  honored  us  while  living. 

The  poor  man's  champion;  the  people  mourn  him. 

Our  Union  cemented  in  patriot  blood  shall  stand  forever. 

He  won  the  wreath  of  fame. 

And  wrote  on  memory's  scroll  a  deathless  name. 

Abraham  Lincoln  is  dead,  but  his  principles  will  live  forever. 

BY    LINCOLN. 

The  Union  must  be  preserved. 

Fellow  citizens  ice  cannot  escape  history. 

A  nation  may  be  said  to  consist  of  its  territory,  its  people  and  its  laws. 

I  believe  this  government  cannot  permanently  endure  half  slave  and 
half  free. 

No  men  living  are  more  worthy  to  be  trusted  than  those  who  toil  up 
from  poverty. 

I  claim  not  to  have  controlled  events,  but  confess  plainly  that  events 
have  controlled  me. 

If  our  sense  of  duty  forbid  slavery,  then  let  us  stand  by  our  duty,  fear- 
lessly and  effectively. 

I  hope  peace  will  come  soon  and  come  to  stay,  and  so  come  as  to  be 
worth  the  keeping  in  all  future  time. 

In  giving  freedom  to  the  slaves  we  assure  freedom  to  the  free,  honorable 
alike  in  what  we  give  and  what  we  preserve. 

201 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

Having  thus  chosen  our  course,  without  guile  and  with  pure  purpose, 
let  us  renew  our  trust  in  God  and  go  forward  without  fear  and  with  manly 
hearts. 

NATURE. 

Go  forth  under  the  open  sky  and  list  to  Nature's  teachings. —  Bryant. 

To  him  who  in  the  love  of  nature  holds  communion  with  her  visible 
forms,  she  speaks  a  various  language. —  Bryant. 

No  tears  dim  the  sweet  look  that  Nature  wears. — Longfellow. 

O,  what  a  glory  doth  this  world  put  on  for  him,  who  with  a  fervent 
heart,  goes  forth  under  the  bright  and  glorious  sky,  and  looks  on  duties 
well  performed,  and  days  well  spent. —  Longfellow. 

Accuse  not  Nature,  she  hath  done  her  part;  do  thou  but  thine. — Milton. 

Let  us  a  little  permit  Nature  to  take  her  own  way ;  she  better  under- 
stands her  own  affairs  than  we  —  Montaigne . 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny; 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve. 

—  Thomson. 

Nature  never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her. —  Wordsworth. 
One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 

May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good 
That  all  the  sages  can. 

—  Wordsworth. 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  a  society  where  none  intrudes 
By  the  deep  sea  and  music  in  its  roar. 

—  Byron. 

Keep  a  heart  open  to  every  voice  from  field  and  wood  and  sky. —  Ham- 
ilton W.  Mabie. 

202 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 


PATRIOTISM. 


America  means  opportunity. —  Emerson. 

Liberty  and  Union,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable. — Webster. 

Millions  for  defense,  but  not  one  cent  for  tribute! — Pinckney. 
The  patriot's  boast, — where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country  ever  is  at  home. 

—  Goldsmith. 

Patriotism  is  not  only  a  legitimate  sentiment,  but  a  duty. —  King. 

We  join  ourselves  to  no  party  that  does  not  carry  the  flag  and  keep 
step  to  the  music  of  the  Union. —  Choate. 

There  is  a  higher  law  than  the  Constitution. —  Seward. 

Where  law  ends,  tyranny  begins. —  Pitt. 

A  poor  freedom  is  better  than  rich  slavery. —  Beecher. 

One  country,  one  Constitution,  one  destiny. —  Webster. 

I  regret  I  have  but  one  life  to  live  for  my  country. —  Nathan  Hale. 

Let  us  have  peace. —  U.  S.  Grant. 

Liberty  cannot  be  established  without  morality,  nor  morality  without 
faith.— Greely. 

No  flag  is  complete  unless  woven  in  its  folds  is  the  star  of  Bethle- 
hem.—  Harr  Wagner. 

The  noblest  motive  is  the  public  good. —  Virgil. 

A  great  nation  is  made  only  by  worthy  citizens. —  C.  D.  Warner. 

Liberty  is  not  the  right  of  one,  but  of  all. —  Herbert  Spencer. 

Liberty  is  from  God;  liberties  from  the  devil. — Auerbach. 

Whether  in  chains  or  in  laurels,  liberty  knows  nothing  but  victories. — 
Wendell  Phillips. 

I  have  never  advocated  war  except  as  a  means  of  peace. —  U.  S.  Grant. 

Slow  are  the  steps  of  freedom,  but  her  steps  never  turn  backward. — 
Lowell. 

One  on  God's  side  is  a  majority. —  Wendell  Phillips. 

203 


Thoughts 

For  Memorizing 

I  care  not  what  course  others  may  take,  but  as  for  me,  give  me  liberty 
or  give  me  death.— Patrick  Henry.  \ 
Authority  must  not  forget  humanity. —  O'Reilly. 

A  veteran  of  the  war  is  dearer  an<J  nearer  even  than  the  flag.     He  is  a 
living  flag,  starred  and  scarred. — O'Reilly. 
I  have  met  the  enemy  and  he  is  ours.— Commodore  Perry. 
He  serves  his  party  best  who  serves  his  country  best. — Rutherford  B. 
Hayes. 

The  union  of  hearts,  the  union  of  hands;  and  flag  of  the  Union  for- 
ever.— G.  P.  Morris. 

I  require  no  guard  but  the  affections  of  the  people. — Washington. 
Rebellion  to  tyrants  is  obedience  to  God. — Thomas  Jefferson. 
By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

—  Emerson. 

Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 
While  through  the  sounding  sky, 
Loud  rings  the  nation's  cry, — 
Union  and  Liberty !  One  evermore ! 

—  Holmes. 

The  stability  of  this  government  and  the  unity  of  this  nation,  depend 
solely  on  the  cordial  support  and  the  earnest  loyalty  of  the  people.—  U.  8. 
Grant. 

I  was  born  an  American,  I  live  an  American,  I  shall  die  an  American ; 
and  I  intend  to  perform  the  duties  incumbent  upon  me  in  that  character  to 
the  end  of  my  career. —  "WebsteKJ 

This  nation  under  God  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom ;  and  that  gov- 
ernment of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people, shall  not  perish  from 
the  earth.—  Lincoln. 


204 


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